On the front line where Elves met Chaos Spawn, a long steam‑whistle sliced the fog, and a doomed fight began to turn.

“I’m getting crushed—pull your stinking feet back, you jinx!”

“You’re the one crowding me! I’m balled up like a hedgehog—move your butt forward!”

“Try having some manners, you—” the rest dissolved into Nacha profanity, sharp as gravel. The cramped compartment, clearly not built for the current bulk of the Nacha Tribe, rattled like a tin can while Hos and Tela squabbled, child against child. If that empty bickering had leaked out to the Elven soldiers outside—soldiers who’d just watched a “miracle” arrive at the last moment, hearts lit by the Lionheart Hero like fire tossed onto snow—those fresh embers of hope would’ve been stamped out in two petty breaths.

Luckily, the compartment held its sound like a sealed kettle. What the Elves heard was the long, solemn whistle of a great engine, the heavy thunder of each step landing like a falling cliff, and a plain metal voice rising from within the austere shell.

[Chaos Index, evaluating… Result: Hazardous. Confirmed conditions: high Chaos Spawn density within thirty kilometers ahead; no allied deployment. Simulating operation plans…]

Yes—the machine striding toward the field was the war engine Silan had revealed in the Trial of Truth: the Type‑59 Wide‑Area Bombardment Warcar, also called the Moonforged Miracle. By name a miracle, by presence a mountain; its arrival stirred awe like wind over wheat, but also pricked caution like a thorn under silk. Silan had warned of its danger in that debate, and the warning hung like a shadow under moonlight.

Even so, with the Chaos tide rolling to within striking distance, the ancient craft of the Nacha Tribe wasn’t the first worry. Whether it truly matched legend didn’t matter; its gaze was fixed on the Chaos Spawn, not on Elven spines. That alone felt like rain on parched earth.

Most of the new‑generation Elven soldiers had no real sense of what it could do. They only saw the five pairs of hydraulic legs under it, thick as pillars, each footpad three or four meters across, like round millstones planted in clay. Even laid sideways like scrap iron before the line, a block that big could stall a wave for a precious breath.

With that thought, they lowered their guard like shields dipped and opened a lane. The machine stepped, thousand‑ton feet thudding like drums, and halted before the melee line formed by the spellblade corps and the shield riders.

Inside, the metal voice kept counting, a steady rain of numbers, until the progress hit a hundred and paused, a heartbeat caught between thunder and echo.

[…Simulation complete. Best reference plan based on conditions: disengage Safety Mode, activate Module Five and Module Eight, and enable the Plow Protocol. Clear obstacles at full power.]

It delivered a conclusion that meant little to the new‑generation Elves, and, as it turned out, not only to them.

“…Huh? Module… Plow Protocol? What even is that?” Hos stared at the brass screen where lines of code jumped like sparks, blank as fresh snow.

“Didn’t we just press a single button last test and it fired? Why’re there options now?” He twisted in the narrow cockpit like a snake in a tube and glared at Tela. “So what are Five and Eight, and that Plow Protocol? It sounds terrifying. Is this really okay?”

Fear pricked first. Tela kept her eyes on the dials, lips tight, focus stiff as frost, but sweat beaded at the nape of her neck like cold dew. Hos’s eye twitched, a ripple under skin.

“Hey, hey… don’t tell me you, the ‘inventor,’ don’t know what they are either.”

“Shut up, jinx, or I’ll staple your mouth!”

“Wait—so you really don’t know!”

“Of course I don’t! I don’t have memories from when I invented this in my last life!”

“And what now? You gonna let an auto‑program drive something that levels mountains when it sneezes?”

“Obviously! This was my proudest work last life. It’ll be fine. Trust me!”

“Fine, or ‘not die’? I’ve got a bad—mmph!” Emotion spiked, then a hand clapped over his mouth. Tela slammed a palm to silence him, then raised her other hand, a fist hovering over the big red Agree button like a hawk over prey.

A beat of doubt. Then a bite of resolve. She shouted, voice tight as a bowstring.

“Please… past me, don’t you dare hide gremlins in the system!”

Her fist fell. The red button clicked clean as a snapped twig, and the metal voice rose again like a river finding its course.

[Manual review passed. Safety Mode disengaged. Plow Protocol initiated. Clearing operation commencing.]

In a blink, every gauge in the cockpit shifted from calm blue to warning red, a tide of light flooding the cramped space. Gears and pipes re‑meshed like veins rerouting, and the moment teeth met teeth, they spun with hummingbird speed, leaving Hos and Tela flailing like swimmers in sudden surf.

Outside, the change blazed. The war prototype began to vibrate at a precise rhythm, and the sound it gave off was the deep hum of a Firestone overcharging under a Magma Forge. Its plain metal shell shed its cold sheen like winter leaving a pond, and warmed into a jade‑soft luster, as if moonlight had been plucked from the sky and set upon steel.

But the glow was a mask. Inside, its energy climbed in geometric leaps, pressure leaking like storm air pressing against lungs. Nearby Elves clutched chests, breath shallow under invisible weight.

[Overcharge: three hundred percent. High‑threat targets locked.]

Its head split open like a flower of steel, and four cannons, each with a bore wider than two meters, slid out, swiveled, and sighted the four massive leaders driving the Chaos wave.

[Module Five: Precision Elimination—execute.]

The next heartbeat screamed with high‑frequency current, and a flash brighter than noon ripped the sky like lightning turned to day. Four guns spat thick streams of superheated plasma, far wider than their visible mouths, and the beams chewed through their chosen giants, along with every Chaos Spawn unlucky enough to ride their paths, reducing flesh, ichor, and rage to their most primitive component—pure void, a hole where hunger had been.

Elven soldiers gaped, mouths open like fish in sudden rain, and the war prototype’s show hadn’t even reached its crest. The four cannons didn’t fall silent. They hunted as a team. When the fourth discharged, the first was already cooled like iron quenched, locked onto a new target, and spat white fire again. Aim, cool, fire—cruel, clean, and relentless. In under a minute, every high‑pressure target gnawing at the Elven line collapsed like rotten trees in a storm.

And even that was not the Moonforged Miracle’s ceiling. While the head cannons snapped down giants, its broad back unfolded like wings, and twelve squat mortars rose, short‑barreled and sturdy, turning with clipped precision.

[Module Eight: Field Wash—execute.]

Pop‑pop‑pop—the sound came big and cheerful, like popcorn made by a thunder god. Compared to the long plasma barrels, these mortars looked almost cute, and they fired in kind—bright spheres arced up, and for a breath it was as if a flock of tiny moons had been tossed into the sky.

Most eyes missed them, dazzled by the grander lightning. The spheres reached their apex, paused like stars hanging, then fell. They struck the sea of Chaos Spawn with dull, fatal grace.

Mushroom clouds blossomed, one for each glowing seed. Shockwaves and the rolling roar hit the Elven line half a beat after the light, a gale as strong as legion‑tier wind magic flipping the front rank—spellblades and riders alike—and breaking formations drawn with a willingness to die.

It didn’t matter anymore. Every pop from those twelve short mortars tore ten thousand more Chaos Spawn into meat and mist. Under that constant pounding, the Void Rift’s output finally lagged behind annihilation. For the first time, the tide recoiled, and the front pushed forward like a spring uncoiled.

What had looked unbeatable for the Elves crumbled like sand under a tide. The Moonforged Miracle made despair seem thin and brittle.

The reason wasn’t that one people’s tech was worlds above another’s, nor that Elven millennia were less than a dormant culture’s ancient craft. The split lay in the path chosen.

Where the Elves built almost everything atop magic—circles and words woven like silk—the earliest Nacha Tribe had no such luxury. They couldn’t call storms or flame with a breath. They weren’t taller or stronger than humans, and their birthrate lagged like winter fields. In the start, they were the weakest of the three peoples.

Fate pushed, and they turned. Hardship steered them onto the tree that cuts Chaos best: rely less on magic, embrace the purer road of craft. From simple gunpowder to engines. From blind heat to harnessed electricity. From spark to grid, from piston to pulse.

Against an enemy that excels at unraveling concepts and systems—Chaos as acid that eats ideas—Elven spells stumble like silk in thorns. Physical weapons endure. They bite. They matter. The difference shows clear, cold as ice under sun.

Even so, this was chance more than superiority. It didn’t mean Nacha tech was inherently better, or that Nacha ancestors were wiser than Elven sages. That’s the sober truth. But neither Hos nor Tela could stay sober, not while millions of monsters turned to ash on the screen like moths in a furnace.

“See that? See that, long‑ears? That’s Nacha power!” Hos crowed, pride blooming like fireworks.

“Yeah! You strut in front of us every day, but how about blasting ten thousand Chaos Spawn in one shot? Can’t do it, can you?”

Their jeers didn’t carry beyond steel, but they howled anyway, faces so pleased it was like preschoolers bragging about toys. Tela snorted, heat under frost.

“You stormed into my room and confiscated my inventions! Called them useless junk—junk!” She puffed, then laughed sharp. “I won’t hold it against you. I’m driving this darling out to save your hides. Be grateful in silence.”

“Exactly! With your scrawny weight, you dare doubt a Nacha ‘inventor’? That’s comedy gold!”

“Heh. My childhood friend knows how to speak truth… Wait, act normal. Buttering me up this hard is creepy.”

Tela grimaced. Hos slapped her shoulder, giddy as a crow on a bright branch.

“Not buttering. Just facts! I’ve always known—maybe not this life—but what you built last life is flawless—”

“—Shh!”

“Mmph?!” (What are you doing?!)

Tela slapped a palm over Hos’s mouth, sealing his words like a lid on a boiling pot. It was a beat too late against his jinx. The machine’s broadcast chimed a cold bell.

[Alert: Multiple high-risk targets detected underground within thirty meters of this unit.]

“Told you—stop that crow-tongue jinx, or it’ll doom us!”

Hos couldn’t speak; his muffled protest buzzed like a trapped hive. “Mmm—mm—mmm?!” He meant: This tank has crushed so many Chaos Spawn. A few strays aren’t a threat, right?

It wasn’t Tela who answered. The machine’s voice fell like cold rain on steel.

[Negative: Enemy too close. Any module use will cause friendly fire and likely irreparable damage to this unit.]

“Mmf—mm?! So you can’t do close combat?” His pride squirmed like a fish on dry land.

Silence pooled. Then the cabin speakers gave a tone, frost creaking on glass.

[Affirmative: This unit is not flawless—much as Mr. Hos is far from perfect.]

“…Mmph—huh? Why the personal stab?” The words pricked like a thorn.

“Forget this petty crap—think of a fix!” Tela glared at the screens, where sharp-headed Chaos Spawn split the earth like cracking shale. She twisted Hos’s cheek, rage venting like steam.

He yelped, a rabbit caught in briars. It helped nothing; the crisis beat forward like a drumline.

Behind the tank, Elf soldiers stood dazed, baptized by the awe of the Moonforged Miracle. No one expected an underground ambush, a snake under grass.

For a heartbeat they only stared as the creatures aimed needle-spear heads at the tank’s weakest ankles. Five pairs of load-bearing legs were set to fail like pillars gnawed by termites.

Then, in that breath, a blue-violet flash cut the sky like a comet blade.

Before anyone could blink, every Chaos Spawn lunging for the Type-59 Wide-Area Bombardment Tank unraveled midair, petaling apart, then drifted down as ash.

Tela and Hos saw it and shouted together, joy cracking their voices like ice under spring.

“It’s—it’s Miss Mira!”