Alpha Strike: [An Interstellar Weapons Platform’s Guide to Organized Crime] (Book 3 title)

Vlad hadn't always been a gangster.

Once, he'd been a rather respectable adventurer.

For decades, with spear in hand, he'd skewered beast and bandit alike, leaving a trail of broken foes and tales of glory behind him. He'd crossed the continent from coast to spine, hitching rides with merchant caravans and carving out a name with every battle. Vlad the Heartpiercer, they'd called him; equal parts merciless on the field and smooth-tongued in the taverns. That last thought tugged a crooked grin across his face.

Like many in his boots, his path eventually led him to Halirosa.

The so-called Adventurer's Capital — seat of the Guild, gateway to the Crimson Mountains. It was the final destination for more than a few battle-hardened dreamers.

That was where the trouble began.

The name Heartpiercer hadn't carried nearly the weight he expected. Not in a city where every adventurer had blood-soaked legends of their own. And standing beside giants like Icefinger or Galefist? He might as well have been nameless.

Even his low-end [Spiritual Awakening] — a breakthrough that would've marked him a prodigy in places like the Azuretide Bogs or the Radiant Sea — barely raised an eyebrow in Halirosa. Not when the Crimson Mountains, one of the few Second Realm zones on the continent, loomed just beyond the walls.

It stung. Of course it stung.

But so what if he wasn't some once-in-a-generation genius? He had… other talents.

The cute clan daughter he had seduced had been no one truly special. A pretty face, sure, but just the fourth daughter of a minor branch family. If he hadn't charmed her, some merchant's son probably would have.

Or so he thought.

That's when he met the man he would later come to know as Seeker. When the man discovered one of his favorite cousins had fallen for a "no-name" adventurer, Vlad learned the real meaning of fear for the first time.

Only his quick reflexes and the sheer luck of not being killed on the spot gave Seeker pause.

Instead, he got an offer.

One he couldn't refuse.

So Vlad the Heartpiercer became one of Icefinger's enforcers. Not a path he'd ever pictured for himself, but staying alive was worth the trade. And, if he was honest, he'd grown to like the work. The clans might sneer, but he wasn't weak. Halirosa's average adventurers still couldn't match him. He wasn't the top dog, no — but under Icefinger's shadow, he got the respect he craved.

Things had started looking up again.

Still… some part of him missed the old life. So when Magnus sent the call out for the raid, Vlad jumped at it. It had been years since his last goblin hunt. And going into the Deep? That was the icing on the cake. Who knew what relics or forgotten treasures might be buried there? Maybe even something to push him further.

Which brought him to now.

With a wild grin, his thoughts full of glory and plunder, spear leveled like a thunderbolt, Vlad was among the first to burst from the treeline after Magnus's signal.

A dozen other enforcers charged beside him, all jostling to be the first to the wall, the first to claim a goblin head. From above, spells, arrows, and more esoteric attacks rained down like a storm. Screams rang out. Several of Vlad's companions fell to the barrage, while others were forced to slow and defend themselves.

But Vlad? He didn't slow.

Most of the defenders were barely mid-to-late [Shackle Breaking], and the goblins were weaker still, barely [Golden Spirit]. Vlad's grin sharpened as he vaulted the second barricade Magnus's opening salvo had destroyed and set his sights on the third and final one.

At this rate, he might clear his whole section before the others even got close.

The thought made him chuckle.

But in the space between one heartbeat and the next, a chill gripped his chest. Icy, spectral fingers clamped around his heart. A sensation he'd learned long ago to trust — a sixth sense forged in blood and close calls.

Eyes wide, Vlad skidded to a halt just shy of the last barrier. His spear spun in his hands, then slammed down into the earth like a lightning rod. With his free hand, he drew a clay tablet from his ring and crushed it.

A shimmering shield flared to life around him.

Just in time.

A small hatch snapped open atop the buried stone barricade ahead.

A sphere launched skyward with a sharp hiss.

He blinked.

And the world went white.

——————————————————

"Ooof, that's nasty," Alpha muttered through the drone perched on Boarslayer's shoulders.

Across the wall, a visible shudder ran through the goblins. Most of them had encountered the Federation's anti-vehicle mines during training simulations. Old tech by Federation standards, sure, but some things didn't need reinventing. The goblins had learned early on to respect the bite of these retro-style barricades.

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The bandits, on the other hand, hadn't been granted that luxury.

All across the killing field, the dragon's teeth unleashed their deadly payloads. The thunder of synchronized detonations tore through the air, louder even than the screams of those caught in the blasts.

When the dust settled, only a few of the charging bandits remained standing. Mostly those who had been far enough away from a dragon's tooth to avoid the deadly spray of shrapnel.

As for the rest?

They were little more than scorched smears across the earth.

Alpha had agonized over what kind of defense system to commit. Automated turrets? High-frequency hex barriers like those they'd used against the termite siege? Effective, yes — but none had the theatrical flair he was hoping for.

He'd opted for the spectacle. And now, standing atop the wall and watching the stunned silence ripple through the defenders, he felt vindicated.

Sure, the adventurers had grumbled when he'd ordered everyone out of the field before the attack. In a world where cultivators could leap dozens of meters and reduce stone walls to rubble with a single strike, traditional siege tactics had long fallen out of fashion. The prevailing wisdom was to meet the enemy head-on, before they ever reached your gates.

But today? Today, he'd brought shock and awe back to the battlefield.

Dr. Maria was the first to break the silence, a soft chuckle escaping her lips.

"Well now. That's certainly one way to start a fight. Well done, Mr. Alpha."

"Why thank you, good doctor. I do aim to impress," Alpha replied, the grin practically audible in his voice.

"It won't work again, unfortunately," Bert muttered, brows knitted into a scowl.

He was right.

The second wave of bandits advanced with far more caution than the first. Shields raised in tight phalanx formation, they protected teams of Earth cultivators and mages as they moved in calculated steps. The moment they reached the next row of dragon's teeth, the spellcasters began their work — unearthing and dismantling each explosive with methodical precision.

Meanwhile, the adventurers and goblins atop the wall resumed their bombardment, spells, and arrows raining down in defiance.

But the surprise was over.

Now came the real fight.

——————————————————

Smoke rolled across the field like a rising tide, thick with the stink of blood, scorched leather, and charred meat.

Magnus Ironheart stood unmoving at the treeline, hammer resting across one shoulder, visor down. The sound of detonations still echoed in his ears, though the chaos had quieted — unnaturally so. No screaming. No victory cheers. Just the crackle of fire and the occasional groan of a man too broken to die quick.

One moment, his enforcers had been surging forward like a tide of steel and fury. The next, they were gone — consumed in a rolling wall of smoke, fire, and bone-shattering thunder.

He didn't flinch. Didn't curse. Didn't so much as narrow his eyes.

He simply observed.

A breath. Two.

Then the smoke thinned, and the truth of it laid bare.

Limbs. Craters. Shields torn apart like paper. Twenty men down in seconds — some of his best — their charge cut short before they'd even seen a target.

"…Impressive," he muttered, low and graveled.

He exhaled, slow, measured.

"Report. Did we not divine the front lines?" he growled.

A scout dashed to his side, armor scorched, one arm bent at an unnatural angle.

"W-we did, sir! McCarthy performed the divination herself! She swore there wasn't a speck of spirit energy to be found. No trap arrays, no formations, nothing! Just mundane barriers!"

Magnus turned his head, slow as a glacier shifting.

The man blanched.

But Magnus didn't raise his voice. Instead, he looked back to the field. Bodies lay in pieces. The stench of offal hung heavy in the air. Among the broken forms, he recognized one — a half-melted pauldron engraved with a heart and a spear.

"Vlad."

He hadn't liked the man. He'd been another one of Seeker's dogs. It always annoyed Magnus that even in Icefinger's inner circle they were still forced to play these games. Nonetheless, Vlad had been useful. Brutal. Reliable. A killer who kept the younger thugs in line and knew how to follow orders. Even if Magnus was aware those orders would eventually reach Seeker.

Now he was just another smear on the earth.

Magnus finally moved, gesturing to the waiting second line. Shieldbearers, warded mages, and a dozen more enforcers stood ready behind them — these slower, heavier, more disciplined. Not glory-hounds. Veterans.

"Advance," he said.

They moved with caution this time. Shields out front. Mages behind. No more rushing the walls. Step by step, they cleared the barricades, checking every patch of dirt for hidden malice.

Magnus lingered at the rear, still staring toward the village.

This wasn't goblin work. That much was clear. And if the adventurers had something like this planned, he would have heard about it.

He could smell the design behind it — not just bloodlust, but intelligence. Cold. Surgical. Whoever was behind this wasn't defending out of desperation.

They were making a statement.

He clenched his fists until the gauntlets creaked.

"All right then," he muttered. "Let's see what you're really hiding in there."

——————————————————

The young man flicked his slender blade with practiced ease, sending a sheet of viscous hemolymph arcing through the air. The green-black fluid slid off cleanly, leaving the metal gleaming as though freshly forged. In a single fluid motion, he sheathed the weapon and stepped lightly off the corpse of the massive ant beneath him, descending in a gentle drift atop a cushion of air.

Two of the bandits Magnus had assigned him for this little side excursion moved in immediately, knives flashing as they began carving into the ant's armored carapace. They were after the beast core, and whatever other valuable parts they could salvage. The creature's size suggested it was one of the soldier caste — its core alone would fetch a respectable price. The young man could practically taste the greed radiating off them.

He frowned, brow furrowing. "Strange… Still no more sign of those silver ants. I was hoping to study them further."

He gave a half-hearted shrug. "Ah well."

Then, with the suddenness of a bird catching the wind, his head turned, gaze fixed somewhere far off in the distance.

"It seems we're out of time. The battle has begun."

A third bandit snorted from where he leaned against a twisted tree root, arms folded across a chest as broad as a barrel. "Good. I'm sick o' babysittin' you lot. Let's get back to Magnus already. I don't care who you are, fancy robes or not. If we're late to the lootin', there'll be hell to pay. Hear me?"

The young man turned to face him — this oversized brute Magnus had assigned as 'protection' — and offered a wistful shake of the head.

"I'm afraid not. This is where we part ways, gentlemen. I have… other obligations."

The big man's brows drew together. He straightened up, heavy boots crunching over the underbrush as he closed the distance in a few aggressive strides.

"Hold up, kid," he growled, puffing out his chest. "I don't know who the hell you think you are, but you're still fresh blood. Magnus gave orders. We head back now. That's final. Got it?"

As he spoke, he clapped a thick hand down on the young man's shoulder and squeezed, hard.

The young man looked down at the hand… then up at the man's face.

And sighed.

A flush of red bloomed across the bandit's cheeks. "You little shit—!"

He reared back, fist cocked to strike.

Splash.

Everything went still.

The bandit's expression froze mid-snarl. Slowly, he looked down.

A thin, pale arm had sprouted from his chest, a still-beating heart cradled delicately in its grasp. He hadn't even seen the young man move. One moment, the robed figure had been before him. The next, he stood behind him, serene and untouched.

The big man's legs buckled. He collapsed forward with a dull thud, face-first onto the forest floor.

The other two bandits stared in horror, gore-streaked knives forgotten in their hands. They exchanged a single, panicked glance, then bolted in opposite directions, crashing into the underbrush without a word.

The young man let the heart fall from his fingers with a wet plop. He exhaled again, almost mournfully, and gave his head a slow shake.

"They always run."