Last Time: A Hololive Story

On this last approach, Gura reviewed every detail, bracing herself with a deep breath. She felt the weight of her past selves' sacrifices and deaths, each etched into her memory like steps on a path to victory. Even if this turn wasn't flawless, she felt closer than ever to breaking the cycle.

AMESS's voice echoed faintly, a hint of amusement tinged with her usual smugness. "Going all-in this time? Brave, but let's see if it pays off."

For a moment, Gura hesitated, sensing the edge of something she couldn't name—a possibility that this might be yet another of AMESS's games. But as she set her mind, her gaze turned steely, and the hard-won clarity of purpose erased any lingering doubts. As she prepared for Turn 35, her lips curled into a determined smirk, her voice filled with both defiance and resolve:

"Thirty-four practice rounds… and now, it's time for the real deal. Let's dance."

And with that, she took a final breath, steeling herself as she asked, "AMESS, transfer me to Bookmark 1."

Back to the Present

As Gura crouched behind a large rock, her pulse steadied, and the faint hum of AMESS's approval lingered in the back of her mind like an uneasy echo. She brushed it off, refocusing on the camp in front of her. The three guards stationed at the entrance were positioned with a clear view of the perimeter, yet they seemed unaware of the faint shadows shifting just beyond their line of sight.

Gura took a silent breath and crept forward, staying close to the ground as she maneuvered around scattered boulders and scrub. Her eyes locked onto her first target—a tall guard to the left with a crossbow slung over his shoulder and a helmet glinting in the fading dusk. She edged closer, knowing this first strike had to be flawless.

In one smooth motion, she sprang forward, her hand wrapping tightly around the guard's neck, muffling his startled gasp. Her blade slipped between the armor joints at his side, finding the vulnerability she had aimed for. He crumpled soundlessly to the ground. She dragged him behind a large crate, stashing the body before moving on.

The second guard, on the right, turned as if sensing movement. Gura pressed herself to the ground, eyes fixed on his silhouette as he scanned the perimeter. Her heartbeat slowed to match his rhythm, and just as he turned his back, she slipped forward, closing the distance in a crouched run. This time, she used her dagger with a reverse grip, sliding it up under his chin and silencing him before he had the chance to react.

The final guard, positioned directly by the entrance, was distracted, idly rubbing his hands together to keep warm. He never noticed her approach until it was too late. Gura struck quickly, a precise blow to his midsection, and lowered him silently to the ground, letting his body rest beside his companions.

With the entry guards down, Gura slipped into the camp, her senses on high alert. The Masked Women, cloaked in matching armor and moving with calculated purpose, patrolled in regular intervals, their movements forming a predictable pattern she had memorized. She stuck to the shadows, gliding between tents and wooden crates, and approached her next target: a lone figure standing guard near a makeshift weapon rack.

This ambush needed to be quicker than the last. Gura's hand moved in a blur as she unlatched the dagger from her belt, her strike swift and efficient. The guard fell, and Gura managed to grab a nearby spear from the rack, tucking it into her belt as she glanced around for her next target.

For the next sixteen minutes, she repeated this cycle, methodically moving through the camp and eliminating each guard with careful precision. She would strike, hide, then move, allowing no time for her opponents to realize the growing threat among them. But as the minutes ticked by, she noticed slight shifts in the camp's atmosphere—a guard frowning, a pair of them murmuring in hushed tones, and finally, a low alert whispering through the camp.

With the camp alert growing and masked women scrambling to locate the source of the threat, Gura knew the moment to act was now. She silently reached into her pack, retrieving a compact but potent explosive device she had acquired during her earlier scouting attempts. The plan had always been to eliminate the Masked Woman directly, but in light of the complex patrols and the heightened awareness, a detonation seemed the only viable option to clear out the camp in one decisive blow.

Gura slipped the bomb into the central structure of the camp, camouflaging it near one of the supports that anchored the entire setup. She knew that by positioning it here, the blast would weaken the main tents and structures and cause maximum disarray. Her heart raced as she set the timer for sixty seconds, her fingers dancing over the small buttons.

As the timer started, she made her way stealthily toward the edge of the camp, maintaining low visibility by darting between shadows and ducking behind scattered supplies. Her breathing steadied as she glanced at the remaining guards and masked soldiers, oblivious to the impending blast.

Just as the timer wound down, Gura reached a safe distance, crouching low behind a sand dune. The explosion tore through the silence, a deafening roar that shook the desert sands. Flames leaped into the air as debris was hurled in every direction, and the camp was thrown into chaos. Panicked cries and disorganized shouts rippled through the ranks of masked soldiers, who scrambled to find shelter or douse the flames that now threatened to engulf them.

In the confusion, the masked women scattered, struggling to regroup and locate the source of the attack. Gura watched carefully, observing that the Masked Woman herself had appeared, attempting to re-establish order amid the chaos. Taking advantage of the disarray, Gura activated her next phase: a tactical approach that used the momentary distraction to close in on her ultimate target.

Near the heart of the camp, Gura spotted her true target—the Masked Woman herself, a tall figure shrouded in dark armor, her face obscured beneath a menacing steel mask. Gura took note of her posture and the glint of her weapons.

The Masked Woman turned, and for a split second, Gura saw the faintest glint of recognition—or was it respect? They stood in silence for a beat, each assessing the other's stance, their weapons ready.

"You've caused quite a mess," the Masked Woman spoke, her voice a low, menacing hiss behind the mask.

Gura smirked, fingers tightening around her dagger. "Just warming up."

The fight erupted into motion. The Masked Woman lunged, her blade swinging with lethal precision, but Gura was faster, sidestepping and countering with her own strike toward the exposed joint she had observed. Her blade scraped against metal but connected, drawing the first hint of blood.

The Masked Woman hissed in pain but didn't falter, pivoting into a counterattack. Gura narrowly dodged, adrenaline surging as the reality of the battle struck her. They moved in a blur of feints and counters, each testing the other's defenses with ruthless focus. Every dodge and strike was a test of her hard-earned tactics, her earlier analysis paying off as she managed to keep the Masked Woman off balance.

But then the Masked Woman shifted, landing a hit that sent Gura stumbling backward, her shoulder searing with pain. Gura gritted her teeth, adrenaline masking the sting as she reached for her spear. She swung it low, aiming for the knees, forcing her opponent to step back. The movement opened up a sliver of opportunity, and Gura seized it.

With a final, desperate lunge, Gura aimed her dagger at the Masked Woman's chest, pushing with every ounce of strength. Her opponent staggered, gasping behind her mask. Gura withdrew the blade, watching as the Masked Woman wavered before finally collapsing to her knees.

Gura stood over her fallen foe, chest heaving and muscles screaming from exertion. She felt the weight of the battle settle into her bones, but she allowed herself only a brief moment of relief.

The Masked Woman let out a rasping breath, her hand twitching as she fought to remain upright. "Well… done," she murmured, a note of strange pride in her voice.

Gura's smirk returned, though it was softened by exhaustion. "Thirty-four practice rounds for this."

As the Masked Woman's body slumped to the ground, Gura exhaled, letting her shoulders finally relax. She had done it. The camp lay in ruins, masked soldiers scattered or defeated, and the encampment reduced to a smoldering wreck. The air was thick with smoke and the lingering scent of burnt wood. She took a deep breath, feeling the weight of her hard-earned victory settle on her, grounding her in the moment.

Finally allowing herself a breath, Gura took a step forward, only to feel a sudden, cold click beneath her boot.

Too late, she realized it was a buried mine. A deadly trap hidden under the soft sand, placed to secure the camp's inner perimeter. Gura's instincts flared to life, years of reflex guiding her as she froze in place, mind racing through the possibilities. She glanced down, biting her lip in frustration.

Gura's eyes narrowed. "You've got to be kidding me." She barely had a chance to exhale before the mine detonated beneath her, the blast swallowing her in a cloud of sand and smoke.