Victorious Athea: My Gacha Luck Decides Humanity’s Fate

"We're nearly there. Ready your weapons," John said, lowering his telescope after scanning the path ahead. 

His voice was steady, and commanding, yet low enough not to echo through the abandoned ruins.

The crashing truck lay ahead, the faint glimmer of its shattered metallic shell barely visible through the thick haze of smoke and dust. Though the immediate area appeared clear, John knew better than to trust the calm.

His companions moved with precision, following his lead. Nova adjusted the strap of her weapon and gave a curt nod. Irish silently reloaded her rifle, her movements efficient and practiced.

After what felt like an eternity of cautious travel and sporadic skirmishes, they had finally reached the vicinity of the crash site. 

John glanced back at his team, their faces marked with exhaustion yet still determined. His meticulous planning and strategic scouting had paid off.

They had encountered Hybrids along the way, but John's skill in risk assessment and navigation had minimized their engagement. 

Instead of charging headfirst into danger, he had identified alternative routes, sidestepping unnecessary battles and preserving their resources.

Because of this, they were still well-stocked with ammunition and supplies, a luxury in the wasteland. It gave them a rare advantage, one they couldn't afford to squander now that they were close to their objective.

As they pressed on, John's mind returned to the mission report. According to the briefing, the truck had been transporting a shipment of rare crystals. The details had been sparse, but from his knowledge of the game's lore, these crystals were highly versatile, used in everything from advanced energy sources to experimental weaponry.

But therein lay the problem. Hybrids were typically mindless, driven by instinct rather than strategy. 

Their attacks were brutal but rarely coordinated. So why had they targeted this truck?

John's brows furrowed as he considered the possibilities. 

A coincidence seemed unlikely—an ambush of this scale required intent. 

Was someone or something pulling the strings? A higher-order Hybrid, perhaps, or worse, human interference?

Whatever the answer, one thing was certain: this wasn't a random accident. The wreckage ahead held more than just shattered machinery and the remnants of a failed mission. It held answers—and John was determined to uncover them.

"Whatever's going on here," he muttered under his breath, tightening his grip on his rifle, "we're about to find out."

John raised his hand in a sharp wave, signaling Vera to move forward. Without hesitation, she followed his order, advancing cautiously toward the wreckage. 

Her posture was alert, weapon ready, her movements deliberate and precise. Irish remained stationed behind her, the steady hum of her machine gun a constant reassurance, ready to unleash a hail of bullets at the first sign of Hybrid movement.

John, however, stayed back, his sharp eyes darting across the desolate landscape. He scrutinized every shadow, every jagged piece of debris, running through a mental checklist of potential threats and countermeasures. 

The wasteland was eerily quiet, save for the faint rustle of wind carrying the acrid scent of smoke and charred metal.

Minutes passed, each one stretching longer than the last. Still, nothing stirred. 

The area seemed lifeless, as though the Hybrids had already abandoned it. But John knew better than to relax. Silence often meant something far worse.

"Vera, Irish, Nova," he finally called out, his voice calm yet firm. "Move in and examine the truck. I'll stay back and keep an eye on the area from the rubble."

Nova, the silver-haired Athea, immediately frowned, her arms crossed in protest. "That sounds cowardly of you," she remarked, her tone laced with disapproval.

John didn't even flinch at the accusation, meeting her gaze with a blunt, unapologetic expression. 

"I'm just a human," he said, gesturing at his own body. "Unlike you, if I get hit, there's no fixing or replacing limbs. And let's be real—I'd be dead before you could do anything."

His frankness caught Nova off guard. She opened her mouth as if to argue but quickly shut it, begrudgingly muttering something under her breath.

"Besides," John continued, his tone lightening slightly but still laced with authority, "you're built for combat. I'm built for commanding. Let's stick to what we're good at, shall we?"

Nova sighed, her defiance waning as she gave a small nod. "Fine, but if you start running away while we're fighting, I'm dragging you back myself."

John chuckled dryly, crouching behind a large piece of rubble and adjusting his rifle. "Fair enough. Now move. And stay sharp—we're not out of the woods yet."

As the three Athea advanced toward the truck, John hunkered down in his hiding spot, the cold metal of his rifle pressing against his chest. 

He adjusted the focus on his telescope, his sharp eyes meticulously scanning the horizon for any sign of movement.

"Found any deceased Athea?" he asked, his voice steady and calm despite the tension in the air.

Irish, crouching near the wreckage, tapped her comm device before responding. "Yes, multiple mass-produced models," she confirmed, her tone clinical as she moved between the fallen bodies.

John frowned, his mind racing. "How were the injuries?" His voice remained level.

He needed to understand the nature of the threat they were dealing with.

"Unconventional Hybrid attacks," Irish replied after a brief pause, her tone precise as she examined the remains. 

"Tearing injuries and burns from energy-based weapons. The aim was at the head, totally destroyed the brain."

John's grip on his rifle tightened. 

That confirmed Hybrids were likely still in the vicinity. But there was more to it than just the method of attack. 

"Destroyed" he echoed under his breath, his mind parsing the implications. 

This wasn't a typical Hybrid ambush. Conventional Hybrids were destructive, yes, but they didn't prioritize disabling Athea's brains so thoroughly.

John's eyes narrowed as he lowered his telescope, scanning the horizon. His mind raced, turning over every possibility. The sudden quiet in the air felt off—unnatural, like the calm before a storm.

 And then, just as he was about to voice another command, a glint in the sky caught his eye.

At first, he thought it might be a bird, a bird of prey perhaps. But as he focused, the figure became clearer. No, it was far too large to be a bird, and the silhouette was wrong. 

A mechanical shape, wings of flame trailing behind it, the air shimmering with heat as if the very atmosphere was buckling under its presence.

John's eyes widened for a split second, and then instinct kicked in. "Take cover!" 

He shouted urgently, his voice cutting through the comms with an intensity that left no room for hesitation. His hand was already pulling the trigger of his own weapon, but he wasn't aiming—it was the order he cared about. 

"Now!"

A barrage of laser-like projectiles, blazing with violent energy, rained down from the sky, their white-hot trails streaking across the battlefield. 

The ground where they had been standing moments ago erupted in an inferno, the heat so intense it felt like the air itself had been set alight. Each blast sent shockwaves that rattled the bones and seared the earth.

By sheer luck and quick reflexes, they had managed to evade the deadly barrage, diving into cover behind the crumbling remains of what might have once been a city outpost. 

But the danger wasn't over. As the last of the fiery embers settled, a shadow descended from above, too massive and too ominous to ignore.

Emerging from the smoke, the figure that had launched the assault slowly came into view, descending with a grace that belied the raw power she wielded. 

Her form was humanoid, but her fiery wings and the presence of dark energy crackling around her made it clear she wasn't just another soldier. No, she was something far worse.

"Huh, you low-tier trash could actually evade that?" The voice came from above, dripping with disdain, cutting through the smoldering air like a whip. 

"Hm, so that shitty commander didn't come? Did they send this trash instead? The Tevat is truly just a shit hole."

It was a woman's voice, but there was no kindness in it—only malice. The figure landed with a soft thud on the scorched ground, her feet barely touching the earth as if the flames surrounding her were enough to lift her.

She was beautiful in an unnerving, alien way, her face flawless yet devoid of warmth. Her eyes glowed a vicious crimson, sharp and unsettling, brimming with power and madness. 

The dark energy that rippled around her seemed to corrupt everything it touched, seeping into the very ground beneath her.

Her wings, massive and dark, spread out behind her, flickering with sickly crimson flames. The dark aura they emitted seemed to warp the very air, the temperature rising further as her presence turned oppressive.

John's gaze narrowed, recognition sparking in his chest. His heart skipped a beat. 

"Flarion," he muttered, the name leaving his lips like a curse, each syllable thick with the weight of old memories. 

It was the phoenix hybrid, a corrupted Athea whose mere presence was enough to send shivers down the spine of even the most seasoned commanders. Her powers were legendary—terrifying enough to make even the bravest falter.

Flarion was more than just a being of fire and destruction; she was a living force of nature, a terror who had left a trail of devastation wherever she went. 

One of the most dangerous creatures ever created, she was a nightmare-a combination of alien technology and godlike power that defied conventional tactics.

John's mind snapped back to his past battles with her in the game. The memory still stung. Flarion had been one of the hardest bosses he had ever faced. Her attacks came fast and merciless, each strike lethal enough to obliterate his Athea in a single blow. 

He'd spent hours memorizing her attack patterns, poring over every detail, learning her every move just to have the smallest chance of surviving. 

Only after countless attempts, after enduring near-constant defeat, had he managed to scrape together a strategy that let him defeat her.

But now, the frustration burned even more deeply. He wasn't in the game anymore. 

The familiar comfort of controlling powerful units, of using his knowledge to gain an edge, was gone. He didn't have the luxury of a top-tier Athea team to back him up. 

No summons, no restart—just him and the scant resources he could scrounge up in this unforgiving world.

And there she was, standing before him, just as powerful and terrifying as he remembered. The same phoenix hybrid that had crushed his hopes in the virtual world now loomed over him, in the flesh, ready to finish what she had started.

"Not like this..." he thought bitterly, the frustration boiling in his chest. "Not like this, again."

The weight of past failures pressed down on him, but there was something else—something that still burned inside him. 

Determination. He wasn't about to give up. Not yet.

He still had a chance. It wasn't much, but it was enough.

With steady hands, John pulled out the Token of Annihilator from his belt. He gazed at it, his eyes narrowing in thought. 

From what he knew in the game, it could be used for one battle, after that, it must rest to be used again. That was its limit. 

The destructive power of the Annihilator was overwhelming, capable of turning the tide of any skirmish in an instant. But here, in this unforgiving world, he couldn't be sure of its exact duration. 

It could be a single moment, or it could last an hour. Hell, it might not work at all. The rules of this new reality were far from clear.

Still, he had to take the risk.

The tension in the air thickened as he gripped the token, feeling its weight in his palm, the pulse of energy emanating from it. His heart beat faster as he locked his focus on Flarion, her fiery wings unfurling in the distance, her mocking smile still in place.

He could already feel the burn of her power creeping through the air, the oppressive heat building with each passing second. The opportunity to strike would be brief, but if he could land a solid shot—just one clean hit—he could level the playing field. 

It might not be enough to kill her, but it would be enough to shift the balance, to give him and his team the opening they desperately needed to escape.

John's eyes flicked over his companions. Irish was still scanning for threats, Nova adjusting her rocket launcher, ready to fire on his command. 

They were with him, but this moment was his alone to seize. The fate of the mission, of their lives, rested on his next move.

He inhaled deeply, steeling himself. This wasn't a game anymore. But he wasn't going to lose to her. Not today.