Alberto's fingers twitched against the obsidian railing of Versailles Palace, the cold biting into his skin. The System's latest report flickered in his vision—SC reserves dwindling, colonial governors bitching, another goddamn dungeon to clear.
A gust of wind carried the stench of burning oil from Rafa's ruins, and for a heartbeat, it wasn't smoldering stone he smelled.
USS Leedstown, Mediterranean Sea
Lieutenant Alberto Bernard leaned against the troop ship's rail, the Atlantic spray stinging his sunburned face. Below decks, two hundred men of the 1st Infantry Division tried to sleep through the gut-churning swell. Most failed. The ship reeked of vomit, diesel, and the cloying sweetness of too many men packed too close for too long.
Alberto didn't turn. He knew that voice. "Captain."
Captain Holloway stepped beside him, lighting a Lucky Strike. The match flare illuminated the deep grooves around his mouth. "You should be sleeping."
Holloway exhaled smoke through his nose. "Got the latest from Intel. Vichy French have coastal batteries every five klicks. Their infantry's dug in like fucking ticks."
Alberto's knuckles whitened on the rail. "We knew it wouldn't be a cakewalk."
"General says we're hitting the beach at Algiers. First wave." Holloway's voice dropped. "They're giving you Baker Company."
Alberto finally turned. "Baker? That's—"
"Raw recruits, yeah. Most haven't seen combat beyond training exercises." Holloway's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Congratulations, Lieutenant. You've just been promoted to babysitter."
The ship's horn blared, drowning whatever smartass remark Alberto had ready.
Off the coast of Algiers
The Higgins boat bucked like a wild horse as it plowed through the surf. Alberto braced himself against the hull, the cold seawater sloshing around his boots. Around him, sixty green-as-grass kids clutched their M1s like rosary beads. One kid—couldn't have been older than nineteen—was praying aloud in Polish.
"Eyes front!" Alberto barked. "When that ramp drops, you move. You stop for nothing. You hesitate for nothing. The beach is death. The dunes are life. Understood?"
A chorus of shaky "Yes sirs" answered him.
The coxswain shouted over the engine's roar. "Thirty seconds!"
Alberto chambered a round. His mouth tasted like copper.
Hell greeted them with open arms.
Machine gun fire stitched the air—tat-tat-tat-tat—water erupting in geysers around them. To their left, another Higgins boat took a direct hit from a coastal gun. The explosion lit up the predawn darkness, men becoming silhouettes of flame before vanishing in the fireball.
Alberto hit the surf running, the icy water clawing at his thighs. Bullets kicked up sand around him. Someone screamed to his right—a private clutching his throat, bright arterial blood pumping between his fingers. Alberto didn't stop. Couldn't.
The beach was chaos incarnate.
Dead and dying men littered the sand like discarded toys. A medic knelt beside a gut-shot sergeant, both of them disappearing in a cloud of pink mist as a mortar found its mark. Further up, a Sherman tank burned, its ammunition cooking off in pops and bangs.
Alberto dove behind a sand dune, his remaining men piling in after him. A quick headcount—thirty-seven left. Christ.
"Listen up!" He had to shout over the artillery. "We push inland. That farmhouse," he pointed to a stone structure two hundred yards up the beach, "is our objective. Intel says it's an observation post. We take it, we give the next wave breathing room."
Private Kowalski—the kid who'd been praying—swallowed hard. "How... how do we get there, sir?"
Alberto ejected his spent clip, slammed in a fresh one. "We run like our asses are on fire."
They lost eight more men crossing the kill zone.
Alberto didn't have time to mourn. The farmhouse loomed ahead, its shuttered windows hiding God-knew-how-many Vichy machine gunners.
"Vasquez! Grenades on my mark!"
The corporal nodded, pulling two pineapples from his belt.
Alberto counted down on his fingers. Three. Two. One—
The grenades arced through the air—thump-thump—and the world exploded in smoke and shrapnel. Alberto was moving before the debris settled, his M1 barking—crack-crack-crack—as he charged through the gaping hole in the farmhouse wall.
French soldiers scrambled for cover. A young officer—couldn't have been older than Alberto—reached for his sidearm. Alberto shot him twice in the chest. The man crumpled without a sound.
The farmhouse fell silent except for the ragged breathing of his men and the distant thunder of the naval bombardment.
Alberto leaned against the wall, suddenly exhausted. His hands shook. Not from fear—from adrenaline. From the sheer fucking absurdity of being alive when so many weren't.
Then the radio crackled.
"Baker Actual, this is Big Red One. Objective secured?"
Alberto keyed the mic. "Roger. Farmhouse is ours."
"Good copy. Hold position. Second wave landing now."
Outside, the first rays of dawn painted the beach in hues of gold and crimson. The sea was littered with burning ships. The sand ran red.
And somewhere in that carnage, Alberto Bernard realized something that would haunt him for the rest of his life—both lives:
Back in Versailles Palace
Alberto came back to himself with a gasp, his fingers digging into the balcony rail hard enough to crack the stone. His uniform—his real uniform, the imperial black and silver—was soaked with sweat.
Just the System's cold glow in his vision:
✔ Dungeon Core Acquired!
SC Yield: 1.2 Billion (Massive Surplus)
Artifact Detected: "Hive Memory Shard" (Contains genetic/psychic imprints of the Queen)
Alberto examined the Hive Memory Shard, his fingers tracing its jagged edges.
Prime Minister Elizabeth watched, uneasy. "Your Majesty, we don't know what that thing is capable of."
Alberto smirked. "That's why we're going to study it."
SYSTEM RECOMMENDATION
1️⃣ Reverse-Engineer Hive Genetics (Unlock Bio-Augmented Soldiers)
2️⃣ Psychic Warfare Development (Queen's Telepathy as a Weapon)
3️⃣ Destroy It (Too Dangerous)
Alberto selected Option 1.
This will help further enhance our military capabilities.