I’ll be the Red Ranger
Chapter 137 – Dogs of War

- Mordred -

"Maintain formation!" Mordred's voice crackled over the comms, resonating with authority as his squad of mechs hurtled through the void. The silhouetted forms of enemy units loomed ahead, distant yet imminent. "Remember, our objective is to delay them. There's no need for anyone to die in this battle. If your mechs sustain damage, fall back to the support ship."

"Yes, sir!" came the unified response from the pilots of House Lot, their voices a chorus of determination.

Mordred knew the stakes all too well. The Dogs of War were relentless—elite pilots feared across the empire. Direct confrontation was equivalent to suicide. But with the Dark Star under his command, he could at least buy some time. His mech wasn't a fourth-generation marvel, but it had been engineered specifically to synchronize with the unique abilities coursing through his veins.

He took a steadying breath, eyes flickering over the holographic displays that lined the cockpit. "I'm moving ahead. Keep the others off me," he ordered. A fierce resolve hardened in his chest. "Long live the Republic of Enceladus!"

"Long live the Republic of Enceladus!" Several pilots echoed his cry, their tones fervent.

"Death to the Empire!" others added, their passion palpable even through the static-laced transmissions.

Gripping the twin control sticks, Mordred pushed the Dark Star to full throttle. The mech surged forward, engines roaring as it left the formation behind. None of the other machines could match its acceleration; the Dark Star was in a league of its own.

As enemy fire erupted around him, Mordred weaved through the barrage with razor-sharp precision. Plasma zipped past, illuminating the darkness with its lethal glow. His hands moved instinctively, guiding the mech in a fluid dance between streaks of destruction.

Within moments, he was upon them. Mordred drew Dark Star’s primary weapon—a black plasma sword. Unlike the standard-issue bolt rifles and cannons favored by most, this blade required him to get up close and personal. That was just the way he preferred it.

He slashed through the first enemy mech, the sword cleaving effortlessly through armor and circuitry. Sparks and shards of metal sprayed as the machine crumpled. Pivoting sharply, he brought the blade around to intercept another attacker, severing its weapon arm in a single strike.

"Sir! We've detected them—the Dogs of War are approaching!" an officer's urgent voice broke through the combat chatter. "Spies report they've just come through the teleport gate."

Mordred narrowed his eyes. "Acknowledged," he replied curtly, his focus unbroken even as he dispatched a third mech with a swift vertical slice.

"There's more," the officer continued. "Intelligence confirms they've deployed a fourth-generation mech."

"Do we have a visual description?" Mordred asked, his tone measured despite the turmoil around him.

"It bears an Omega symbol on one arm and is equipped with a Gravity Controller at its core," the officer detailed.

"Understood." Mordred felt a knot tighten in his stomach. He kicked the Dark Star into a spiraling ascent, narrowly avoiding a collision as an enemy mech detonated below.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath. The mission was spiraling out of control. What was supposed to be a straightforward delaying action in exchange for a bio-engineer had escalated dramatically. Now, they faced not only the notorious Dogs of War but also an advanced fourth-generation mech—the type of enemy that could tip the scales decisively.

He couldn't let his apprehension show. Not now. Not when his men depended on his unwavering confidence.

"All units, adjust formation. Prioritize evasion and suppression. Do not engage the fourth-gen," he commanded.

A flurry of acknowledgments came through, laced with static and the distant sounds of battle.

Alarms blared within the cockpit of the Dark Star, jolting Mordred to full alertness. Indicators flashed red across his HUD, signaling the approach of the mechs he had been tracking. His grip tightened around the hilt of his plasma sword. With a swift, decisive movement, he slashed through two enemy mechs that had dared to close in on him, their metal husks exploding into fragments.

Through the maelstrom of battle, one of his external cameras picked up new contacts. Emerging from the chaotic swarm of combatants, a trio of mechs materialized—The Dogs of War. Sleek and menacing, their armor was painted in black with pulsating streaks of purple. Their silhouettes were jagged and aggressive, with sharp edges and irregular plating that gave them a predatory appearance. They moved with unnerving speed and precision, weaving through the fray like synchronized hunters honing in on their prey.

Mordred's eyes narrowed. The resemblance to his own mech was unmistakable. Like the Dark Star, these machines wielded plasma blades, though theirs glowed an eerie violet. For years, House Lot had suspected that their designs for the Dark Star had been stolen to create these monstrous equivalents—an act only the Emperor himself could have orchestrated. Yet, without concrete proof, the accusations remained whispers in shadowed halls.

The Dogs of War were an enigma, rarely seen on any battlefield. They were the Emperor's unseen hand, the ultimate weapon employed not in open war but to keep the Great Houses in check. The common populace knew little of them, but Mordred had uncovered their secret long ago. They appeared only when the delicate balance of power was threatened, quelling insurrections before they could ignite.

‘Perhaps they're not even under the Emperor's control,’ Mordred mused, a scowl forming beneath his helmet. ‘Maybe they answer to the Sovereign himself.’

Snapping back to the present, he activated the Dark Star's lateral thrusters. The mech spiraled gracefully, evading incoming fire while preventing the trio from encircling him. His fingers danced over the controls with practiced ease, every maneuver a testament to his lifetime of training.

Switching to an open channel, Mordred's voice rang out with defiant bravado. "Come at me one at a time, and I'll take you all down!"

A cold voice replied, dripping with disdain. "You're insane, young Lot."

"Bow before the Emperor," another intoned, emotionless.

"Or perish like the rest of your fleet," the third said, adding a hint of menace to his tone.

Their words washed over him. "Sir!" a frantic voice broke through on a secured frequency. "We've received intel—the Titans have reached the Half Wall. We may retreat."

Mordred spared a glance at his tactical display. The situation was deteriorating rapidly. "Squadron 16 reporting heavy losses! Requesting permission to fall back," another pilot chimed in, desperation evident.

"Permission granted," Mordred responded calmly. "Squadrons 17 and 18, provide cover and prepare to withdraw."

Even as he issued orders, his mind was a flurry of calculations. The Dogs of War pressed him relentlessly, their coordination impeccable. It took every ounce of his skill—and then some—to evade their strikes. Any lesser pilot would have been obliterated by now, but Mordred was no ordinary pilot. He was the scion of House Lot, commanding one of the most advanced mechs ever built.

"Squadron 16 retreating," came the confirmation.

Another alarm sounded. "Gravitron Prime sighted!" a pilot shouted. "They're moving to encircle us!"

Mordred's blood ran cold. "He's activating his primary weapon. Everyone, fall back now!" The urgency in his voice was unmistakable.

But it was too late. The last transmission from Squadron 16 was a garbled scream before their signals vanished. On the horizon, a blinding light erupted as fifteen mechs were compressed into a singular, twisted mass of metal—a grotesque sphere that began to attract debris and wreckage around it. The Gravitron Prime's weapon had generated a gravitational anomaly so intense it obliterated nearly an entire battalion in seconds.

"Fuck!" Mordred roared, slamming his fist against the console. But there was no time for grief or rage. Pushing the Dark Star's engines beyond safe limits, he accelerated, maneuvering wildly to avoid incoming fire. Warning lights blazed across his cockpit; the reactor was overheating, and structural integrity was compromised. The mech had never been pushed this hard before.

"Squadrons 17 and 18, disengage from the enemy mech and initiate immediate retreat," he commanded, his tone icy but composed.

He knew it was time to pull back himself. ‘I can't defeat them head-on—not like this,’ he thought grimly. But escaping the Dogs of War was no simple task. They moved as one, each covering the others' blind spots, leaving no opening for him to exploit.

"Running away already?" one of the pilots taunted over the open channel.

"Where's the great Lot who dared to declare independence?" another jeered, their voices needling at his composure.

Mordred gritted his teeth. "We'll meet again, and when we do, you'll face justice," he shot back. "But you won't leave here without a parting gift for the Emperor."

He closed his eyes briefly, centering himself. Drawing upon the depths of his power, he felt a familiar surge as energy coursed through him. Shadows began to writhe and expand, enveloping the Dark Star from within. Unlike before, when he'd unleashed this power to annihilate dozens of mechs, he now contained it, letting it infuse every circuit of his machine.

A sensation of unity washed over him. Pilot and mech became one, their energies intertwined. Limitations evaporated. The Dark Star's reactor stabilized, the earlier warnings fading as newfound strength surged through its systems.

Without warning, he accelerated. The sudden burst of speed caught the Dogs of War off-guard. In the blink of an eye, Mordred was upon them. His plasma sword cleaved through the nearest mech, slicing it cleanly in half. The two halves drifted apart, sparking and sputtering as they tumbled into the abyss.

Before the remaining two could react, Mordred engaged his thrusters, veering away from the battlefield at breakneck speed. The stars became streaks of light as he pushed the Dark Star to its limits.

"Inform the Emperor," he transmitted back to his pursuers, his voice echoing with defiance, "I am coming for him."

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