The corridor trembled beneath the fury of Baracko's fists.
Like a machine of war wrapped in sinew and power, Baracko unleashed a ruthless barrage of punches. His knuckles tore through the air with explosive speed. Rory gritted his teeth, mandibles raised like twin swords, catching the first few blows through sheer will—but the force behind each strike was monstrous. The sheer pressure behind every hit cracked the air and rocked the floor.
Baracko's final blow slammed directly into Rory's block. Though Rory held firm, his smaller frame couldn't absorb the impact. He was thrown violently backward, tumbling end over end, his body slamming into the corridor walls and skidding across the rough stone until he came to a bone-jarring stop.
"Rory!" Brooks called out, eyes narrowing as dust settled around the motionless youth.
Brooks lunged forward, his curved mandibles glowing faintly from the energy coursing through them. He came at Baracko like a seasoned gale—calculated, quiet, but full of weight. One mighty slash screamed through the air, aiming to cleave one of Baracko's arms off.
Baracko shifted to the side with effortless grace, the blade grazing his chest armor with a metallic hiss. He retaliated with another flurry of punches, each one like the swing of a mountain's hammer. Brooks deflected and weaved, the power of their wills clashing midair.
A heavy punch flew at Brooks' side, and he raised both mandibles to intercept. The force of the blow was overwhelming—it sent him skating backward across the stone corridor, his feet grinding against the floor, sparks flying beneath his boots.
Baracko exhaled, letting his arms fall to his sides briefly. "You're persistent, Brooks. Still strong after all these years."
From behind, a groan echoed weakly.
"Goddamn it... I'm not done yet," Rory muttered, his hand trembling as he pressed it against the floor. His mandibles wavered, but he forced them upright as he slowly rose. Blood trailed down his cheek. He was shaking, but fire still burned in his eyes.
"You're a stubborn one, that's for sure," Baracko said calmly, regarding the young ant with a faint glint of respect.
Then, suddenly—his antennae twitched.
Baracko's posture shifted ever so slightly. His eyes sharpened, as though he were peering through the stone walls themselves. He closed his eyes and took a long breath. He knew. A strange stillness crept over him.
"To think," he muttered to himself, "one of these ants actually managed to defeat Hopper. Could it be... Anastasia?"
He opened his eyes slowly, exhaling in thought.
"That's a shock."
"What the hell are you mumbling?" Rory snapped. "You bastard—we'll defeat you right here and now!"
He took a shaky step forward, mandibles clenched in fury.
But Baracko raised a hand—not to strike, but to halt.
"Listen," Baracko said with unreadable calm, "there's no more need for our fight. It's pointless now."
Rory blinked in disbelief. "What?"
His voice trembled with raw emotion. "After everything you grasshoppers did to our colony, you expect us to stop fighting? Knowing full well if we stop, we die? You'll just regroup and come back to eradicate us later!"
Fueled by rage, Rory charged with a cry, mandibles raised.
But Brooks stepped forward suddenly, calm as ever, his voice quiet yet firm.
"Rory, stop. Do not engage with him anymore."
Rory skidded to a halt, eyes wide.
"What?! Lieutenant Brooks—but why?!"
Baracko turned towards the young soldier, his expression unreadable.
"What I said is true. There's no need to continue this. Hopper... Hopper has been defeated. By one of your kind."
Rory's mandibles lowered an inch.
"Hopper? Defeated?" His voice cracked. "You're serious?"
Baracko nodded solemnly.
"Yes. The war ends here. I have no more reason to fight you. I never had any intention of harming your people. But Hopper was our leader. His word was law—absolute. As a soldier, I followed it, even when it led us down this bloody path."
He looked up at the fortress ceiling, as if seeing through time.
"Hopper was a fool," he continued. "Consumed by strength, obsessed with power. I trained the boy myself... watched him rise. He had potential. So much potential. But somewhere along the way, he stopped listening. Stopped learning. He became a monster drunk on power."
Rory trembled, eyes fixed on Baracko.
"So... what becomes of the rest of the grasshoppers now?"
Baracko crossed his arms. "We regroup. But under a new order—my order. I am the strongest remaining grasshopper. And I will see to it that under my leadership, no more harm comes to your colony. I will end our harvesting of your food supply. That's my promise—as thanks for letting us walk away."
His fists clenched, and he slammed both upper and lower knuckles together with a deafening crack.
The force created a shockwave that rippled through the corridor and beyond.
Elsewhere within the fortress, Ruth slashed through a weakened squadron of grasshoppers, panting, her mandibles slick with sweat and blood. Amelia knelt beside the unconscious Leon, shielding him, while General Ivan sat against a wall—bruised but smiling grimly.
Suddenly, the tremor of Baracko's shockwave hit them.
Every grasshopper in the vicinity paused mid-fight.
"No way... Hopper has been defeated?" one murmured.
"It can't be..." another said in disbelief.
Then a senior soldier called out, "You heard the signal. Orders from Commander Baracko himself—retreat! We're already fighting a losing battle. With Hopper gone, it'll be a slaughter!"
The remaining grasshoppers abandoned their positions, retreating swiftly.
Ruth dropped to her knees, catching her breath. "They're retreating... They actually gave up."
Amelia, still gasping, looked around. "Did I hear them right? They... defeated Hopper?"
Ivan laughed, a low, wheezing sound. "Heh. Looks like you actually did it, Anastasia. Queen Celeste's army... no joke indeed."
Outside the fortress walls, the slave ants watched in confusion as the grasshoppers sprinted past them.
"They're fleeing?" Gor asked, stunned, still shielding Regina.
Regina looked around, equally confused.
"They're not even looking at us..."
"That's simple," said a familiar voice. Lanco, a grasshopper, limped over, covered in bruises. "Baracko ordered it. Hopper's gone. There's nothing left to fight for."
"What?" Gor's eyes widened. "That monster was actually defeated?"
The words echoed, igniting a wildfire among the slaves.
A roar of cheers erupted from the freed ants. Hope, for the first time in seasons, shined on their faces.
Regina's lips curled into a smile. "Looks like that ant Ari was stronger than we thought. He said we'd take our freedom back. And now... we just might."
Back in the corridor, Baracko turned to Brooks.
"Well, it looks like everyone got the message," he said. "This is farewell, Brooks. I know... you won't forgive me for your son's death. But I hope this battle gave you some peace. Some closure."
He hesitated.
"If we ever meet again... let it be as allies. Not enemies."
Brooks' eyes were still, reflective.
"That depends. Fate decides such things. Either way... revenge wasn't what I came here for. I came here for the colony's future. For survival. That's safe now. Fighting you to the death... it would amount to nothing. One more life lost... pointlessly."
Baracko gave a small smile.
"I'm glad we see eye to eye."
With that, he turned and began walking away, his back straight, his steps heavy but peaceful.
"Farewell, old rival."
Rory collapsed behind Brooks with a final gasp.
"Damn it... I can't believe we're letting him... go..."
Brooks knelt beside him, catching him in his arms.
"You held your own, Rory," he whispered, brushing a hand across the boy's bruised brow. "I'm proud to have been your mentor. Your growth... was undeniable."
He paused, the silence falling thick around him.
He looked at Rory—at his face, slack in unconsciousness. And suddenly, for the briefest moment, another face overlapped it. Toran.
The same jawline. The same stubborn scowl even in sleep. The same fire.
Brooks' heart ached.
"You remind me so much of Toran, kid..."
He stood, lifting Rory carefully in both hands now, his mandibles still at the ready just in case, but his posture more relaxed—worn, tired, but full of quiet determination.
"Now then... it's time I meet up with the others. Hopefully... everyone's still alive."
He took one last glance at the corridor, then strode off toward the fading echoes of war.