It was exactly 3:00 AM when the silence over Kuruva was shattered.
An F-16 fighter jet screamed across the sky, unleashing a barrage of bombs directly onto the tanks guarding the Capitol. One explosion after another ripped through the streets, turning armored vehicles into burning wreckage while soldiers scattered in panic. The ground trembled violently beneath the entire city.
Across Kuruva, civilians jolted awake as windows rattled in their frames and dogs barked wildly in the darkness. Some families stayed hidden inside their homes. Others stepped outside, while some climbed onto rooftops, staring toward the Capitol where massive fireballs lit up the night sky and thick, black smoke rose high above the buildings.
Then the fighter jet roared overhead once again.
Another powerful explosion shook the city to its core.
Inside the Capitol, chaos surged through the marble corridors.
"Move! Move! Keep the corridor clear!" the lead security officer shouted, his voice echoing against the high ceiling.
President Emmanuel was being rushed forward by two heavily armed guards. He was no longer the composed leader seen on television—his face now drawn with exhaustion and fear. Beside him, his wife clutched their child tightly, barely able to speak.
Reaching the lower level, they passed through a secondary entrance leading into a hidden corridor. At the far end stood a reinforced door.
The officer pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked it. Stepping inside, he shoved a side table aside, revealing a heavy gray steel square door in the floor.
He inserted a second key, entered a code, and waited for the mechanism to click.
With a firm grip, he pulled it open.
"Mr. President, you may now enter the bunker" he said.
As explosions rumbled above and distant shouting echoed through the halls, the President looked at his wife and gave a small nod. He guided her and their child inside, then paused for one last glance at the officer.
"You'll be safe here until the Elite forces arrive," the officer assured him.
The President nodded.
The heavy steel door of the bunker slammed shut.
Outside the Capitol, the defensive line was collapsing. Panic spread as armored vehicles and tanks were systematically destroyed by the lone jet overhead.
A soldier crouched behind a shattered wall glanced toward the horizon.
A convoy was approaching.
Pickup trucks—fast, aggressive.
As they drew closer, his eyes widened in horror.
Each vehicle carried armed militiamen—AK-47s, RPGs, submachine guns. A red flag whipped violently in the wind as they sped forward, kicking up thick clouds of dust.
"Prepare to open fire!" shouted the commander of the Zarakhanda Defence Forces.
Weapons were raised. Aimed.
"One minute!"
The convoy didn't slow.
"Thirty seconds!"
Still advancing.
"Fifteen… ten…"
"Open fire!"
Gunfire erupted.
Bullets tore into the lead truck, forcing it to skid sideways to a violent halt.
Without hesitation, a gunner mounted on a Toyota Hilux swung his machine gun toward the Capitol and unleashed a relentless barrage. Tracers streaked across the battlefield.
Another fighter jumped down, gripping an RPG launcher. He raised it—
A single shot cracked.
His head snapped back as the bullet struck, and he collapsed instantly.
The launcher fell.
Another fighter grabbed it without hesitation, shouldered the weapon, and aimed at a cluster of soldiers taking cover behind a concrete barrier.
He fired.
The rocket screamed across the distance—
Impact.
The explosion sent bodies flying, along with shards of shattered concrete.
One by one, the trucks screeched to a stop. Rebels poured out, spreading across the battlefield, unleashing a storm of gunfire toward the Capitol.
Inside the defensive perimeter—
"Watch your right!" a government soldier shouted.
Too late.
An RPG slammed into the perimeter wall.
The blast tore through the defenses, sending fragments of concrete ripping across the courtyard.
Burning tracer fire crisscrossed in every direction as government troops returned fire. Empty shells clattered against the ground like metallic rain.
Then—
A new sound cut through the chaos.
A deep, thunderous rotor beat.
Growing louder.
Heavier.
Two Mi-17 helicopters surged into view, looming over the battlefield—dark, massive, and menacing—side-mounted machine guns already spitting fire.
"Take cover!" one of the militia fighters shouted. as they running toward a hidden spot The helicopters opened fire, several fighters broke into a frantic sprint, scattering toward walls, wreckage, and shallow ditches.
The second Mi-17's side-mounted 12.7mm machine guns roared to life, unleashing a deafening storm of rounds that tore across the ground.
Dirt and concrete burst upward as the bullets swept through their path.
One fighter running ahead suddenly dropped mid-stride, motionless as the barrage caught up to him.
Other dove behind a cracked concrete barrier, but cried out as he hit the ground hard, scrambling the rest of the way into cover while rounds snapped overhead.
"Keep moving!" someone shouted.
A group rushed toward an overturned truck for protection—but as they reached it, the metal rang violently under heavy fire. Sparks flew as bullets punched through, forcing them to duck lower.
One of them froze for a split second—then collapsed behind the vehicle.
Others threw themselves flat against the dirt, pressing down as tracer rounds streaked above them in the air.
The battlefield blurred into dust, smoke, and chaos.
Above, the helicopters hovered like predators steady and relentless, sweeping the ground with fire as the fighters desperately searched for anything that could shield them. As the Helicopter encircled them, one fighter behind the Hilux began rotating the anti-aircraft machine gun, tracking the helicopter as it pulled back for another pass to provide fire support.
He squeezed the trigger. The weapon roared, spitting a stream of rounds into the sky—tracers cutting bright lines through the smoke and darkness. The helicopter veered slightly, the rounds passing just behind it, missing by mere meters. The gunner cursed under his breath, adjusting his aim as the aircraft climbed and repositioned, untouched and already preparing to strike again.
As the two helicopters raked the convoy below with relentless machine-gun fire, a sharp, rising roar suddenly cut through the chaos—high-pitched and fast, overpowering the gunfire of soldiers and militia on the ground. One of the militia truck bristling with armed fighters—erupted in a blinding fireball. A stray burst from a helicopter's heavy machine gun had punched through the rear cab, striking the improvised bomb hidden behind the backseat. The blast was instantaneous and savage. The vehicle's frame buckled outward in a thunderous orange bloom, metal and glass shredding into lethal shrapnel that hissed through the air. Six militia bodies were hurled skyward with the debris, limbs flailing like broken dolls. They tumbled through the smoke in grotesque arcs before slamming back to earth amid twisted wreckage—charred, torn, and lifeless. Burning fuel spilled across the road, igniting smaller fires that licked at the remaining vehicles and sent thick black plumes curling into the sky. The surviving fighters screamed and scattered, their convoy now a broken, flaming line under the merciless rotors above.
As chaos erupted on the militia's side, an F-16 fighter jet tore across the sky once more before pulling up hard into a steep climb.
Inside the cockpit, the pilot monitored the situation below through his targeting pod, his eyes locked on the battlefield as data flickered across his display.
"Target acquired," he muttered.
He banked slightly, lining up the first Mi-17. The tone in his headset shifted—steady, confirming the lock. Without hesitation, he fired.
A missile streaked away from the jet, cutting through the air in seconds. The Mi-17 pilot barely had time to react. The missile slammed into the helicopter's side, erupting in a violent explosion. Flames tore through the fuselage as it spiraled out of control, crashing straight into a cluster of residential buildings below. The impact sent a massive fireball into the sky, debris scattering in all directions.
In the second Mi-17, everything froze for a split second.
"they're gone!" the gunner shouted, his voice cracking as he watched the other helicopter vanish in a ball of fire.
"keep on firing" the co-pilot whispered, disbelief turning into dread.
"Do we pull back?!" the gunner yelled, gripping the mounted weapon, hands trembling.
"No—we stay on mission!" the pilot snapped, though the tension in his voice betrayed him. His eyes flicked across the instruments, heart pounding as adrenaline surged. "Ground units still need—"
A warning tone suddenly blared inside the cockpit.
The pilot's head snapped toward the display.
"Missile lock!"
"Break! BREAK!" the co-pilot shouted.
The helicopter lurched violently as the pilot yanked the controls, trying to evade. The gunner stopped firing, bracing himself, fear now fully overtaking the earlier shock.
"Too close—!" he yelled.
"Fox Two."
Another missile launched from the F-16, slicing through the air toward them.
The Mi-17 banked hard, engines screaming, but the missile tracked relentlessly. For a brief second, it looked like they might outrun it—
Then impact.
The explosion tore into the helicopter's tail, sending it spinning uncontrollably. Inside, alarms screamed as the crew were thrown violently against their harnesses.
"We're hit! We're hit!" the co-pilot shouted.
"Hold it—hold it—!" the pilot strained, fighting the controls that no longer responded.
Below them, a bridge came into view far too quickly.
"Mayday—!"
The transmission cut off as the Mi-17 slammed into the structure, erupting into a massive explosion that engulfed the bridge in fire and collapsing debris.
In seconds, the sky fell silent—leaving only the distant crackle of flames and the stunned aftermath below.
After witnessing the destruction of both enemy air support, a wave of disbelief swept through the militia—then it broke.
"DID YOU SEE THAT?!" one fighter shouted from a second-floor window.
Cheers erupted across the battered line. Fighters emerged from cover, adrenaline surging, their voices rising over the fading echoes of explosions. Some raised their rifles high, pumping their fists, while others fired short bursts into the sky in raw celebration.
"They're down!" another yelled.
For a brief moment, the chaos shifted—fear replaced by triumph. Smoke still curled into the sky where the helicopters had fallen, burning wreckage staining the skyline. The militia stood taller now, weapons raised, feeding off the sudden surge of morale.
But the battlefield wasn't quiet for long.
From the Capitol, soldiers could hear the distant cheers of the militia echoing through the streets. A captain, gripping his radio tightly, stepped forward—his face tense, voice urgent.
"We've lost both air assets," he said, forcing control into his tone. "Requesting immediate reinforcements—repeat, immediate reinforcements!"
"Reinforcements are five minutes out!" the voice crackled over the radio.
The captain clenched his jaw, glancing toward the distant gunfire.
"Five minutes…" he muttered. "That's a lifetime."
Then the firefight raged on. Soldiers ran in shifting positions as they searched for solid cover—ducking behind concrete barriers, wrecked vehicles, and shattered walls. The militia kept up relentless fire, AK-47s cracking in uneven bursts, bullets snapping through the air.
From the far end of the street came a deep, grinding roar.
A Soviet-era T-55 battle tank emerged through the smoke, advancing toward the Capitol—slow, heavy, and unstoppable. Its tracks tore through the pavement, crushing asphalt beneath its weight as it rolled forward. Parked cars were pushed aside or flattened completely, metal crumpling like paper under its mass.
"Reinforcements have arrived!" a soldier shouted, his voice strained. Sweat soaked his face, streaked with dust and grime. His helmet hung loose, barely secured, shifting with every movement.
Meanwhile, the militia kept up a relentless barrage of gunfire. On the other side of a truck, one man stood apart from the chaos—a cigar clenched between his lips, a cellphone pressed to his ear.
"This is Sefu," he said calmly.
"Tell your men—we need Emmanuel alive, and his cellphone secured," the voice on the line replied.
Sefu exhaled a slow stream of smoke out the window, unfazed by the gunfire rattling around him.
"No problem," he said. "For the right price."
He ended the call and stepped down from the vehicle, boots hitting the pavement. For a moment, he just stood there, eyes scanning the distance.
Beyond the smoke and burning wreckage, the defense of Zarakhanda's forces around the Capitol was beginning to falter. Their lines were thinning, movements less coordinated. And now, armored units were pushing deeper—battle tanks rolling steadily within the Capitol's perimeter.
Sefu narrowed his eyes, taking it all in.
The tide was turning.
As the tank's turret began to rotate.
Inside, the gunner steadied his aim, finger tightening on the trigger—
Then everything went white.
A massive blast slammed into them. The impact tore through the armor, followed instantly by a violent fireball that engulfed the vehicle from within. The tank never even got a chance to fire—its turret twisted violently as flames burst out from the hatches.
Above, the scream of jet engines returned.
An F-16 fighter jet cut across the sky, banking sharply as its targeting system locked onto the next armored vehicle pushing forward behind the first.
"Target locked."
"Fire."
A missile dropped smoothly from the wing and ignited, streaking downward with deadly precision. The second tank tried to adjust—too slow.
The missile struck the top armor, punching through before detonating. The explosion blew the turret apart, sending a shockwave across the street as burning debris scattered in all directions.
"Another one down!" someone shouted from the ground.
But the air wasn't clear yet.
A second F-16 roared in low, fast and aggressive. This time, it released a precision-guided bomb.
The weapon fell silently for a split second—then accelerated.
It hit the third tank dead center.
The explosion was catastrophic. A towering column of fire and smoke erupted, lifting the tank off its tracks before slamming it back down as a smoldering wreck.
Within seconds, the entire armored push was gone.
What had been a column of reinforcements was now nothing but twisted metal and burning ruins.
"Good hits. All targets neutralized." says pilot with calm, controlled voice.
The F-16 banked sharply, engines screaming as it accelerated away from the battlefield, disappearing into the sky on its return to base.
"Allahu Akbar!" one fighter shouted, and the others quickly joined in, raising their rifles into the air.
"Allahu Akbar!"
A new wave of celebration erupted among the militia while, inside the Capitol, desperate soldiers shouted over the chaos, trying to hold the line.
Commander Sefu stood motionless, his eyes fixed on the Capitol building. Even from a distance, he could see the giant portrait of President Emmanuel hanging above the entrance.
Then the memories came rushing back.
Gunfire tearing through his camp. His men collapsing one after another like slaughtered animals. Smoke. Blood. Screams.
Sefu's expression darkened.
"Now it's my turn," he muttered.
Beside the truck, his AK-47 rested across his shoulder as he raised one hand, signaling the gunner positioned behind the mounted machine gun on the Toyota Hilux nearby.
The gunner understood immediately.
The heavy machine gun swung toward the Capitol and erupted with a deafening roar.
A relentless barrage of bullets hammered the defensive line. Concrete exploded into clouds of dust as windows shattered instantly. Soldiers trying to return fire were cut down before they could even rise from cover. Others threw themselves behind sandbags, only for the machine-gun rounds to rip straight through them.
The walls of the Capitol were scarred by hundreds of impacts, chunks of cement spraying across the courtyard. One government soldier attempted to crawl toward a wounded comrade, but a burst of gunfire struck the ground around him, forcing him flat against the bloodstained pavement.
"They're breaking through!" one soldier screamed.
The militia fighters surged forward, firing wildly as tracer rounds streaked through the smoke-filled air.
Inside the Capitol defenses, panic began to spread.
"We can't hold this position anymore!" another soldier shouted.
Then, through the radio static and nonstop gunfire, the exhausted government commander finally gave the order none of them wanted to hear.
"Retreat! Retreat!"
Panic spread across the Capitol grounds.
Emmanuel's troops scattered in every direction, trying to escape the relentless storm of bullets tearing through their defensive lines. Some sprinted blindly through the smoke-filled courtyard while others crawled beside shattered walls, desperately hugging cover as tracer rounds ripped overhead. The wounded screamed for help, but the nonstop gunfire swallowed their voices.
Then, beyond the battlefield, the low growl of an engine emerged.
Roughly fifty meters from the Capitol, beside a row of abandoned establishments scarred by explosions and bullet holes, an armored vehicle came to a halt.
The driver deliberately kept his distance from the Capitol grounds—far enough to avoid becoming an easy target for rockets or airstrikes.
The doors swung open.
A unit of Royal Special Forces quickly dismounted, rifles already in hand. Unlike the terrified soldiers fleeing around them, their movements were calm, disciplined, almost emotionless.
Even from their position, they could hear the deafening gunfire and desperate screams echoing from the Capitol complex ahead.
"Sir, we're losing!" Says one of soldier.
The captain slowly turned toward him, his jaw tightening his cold eyes showed neither fear nor panic.
"Jabari," the captain said flatly, "you still talk like infantry."
Jabari lowered his gaze but said nothing.
"Team check your weapons!"
Metallic clicks immediately filled the air.
Magazines slammed into rifles. Bolts snapped backward. Safeties clicked off.
The special forces unit prepared themselves with practiced precision before advancing toward the Capitol.
As they moved through the street, several exhausted government soldiers suddenly rushed past them, fleeing from the battle in panic. One nearly collided with the captain.
The captain grabbed the man violently by the vest and slammed him against a cracked concrete wall.
"Why are you running?!" he barked.
"They have fighter jets!" the terrified soldier stammered.
His face was pale beneath the dirt and sweat, his breathing ragged and uneven. Fear burned inside his exhausted eyes—the expression of a man who had just watched death rain from the sky.
For a brief moment, the captain stared at him in silence.
Then he shoved the soldier aside.
"Fucking west"
The terrified man stumbled away without another word.
The captain raised his rifle toward the smoke-covered Capitol.
"Team, move forward! We get the President out alive!"
"Move! Move!"
The elite advanced through the ruined street, rifles raised and tactical packs bouncing against their backs as they disappeared into the smoke and chaos surrounding the Capitol.
At the Capitol grounds, Commander Sefu watched the burning compound in silence as gunfire echoed across the night.
Then he tapped one of the fighters beside him on the shoulder.
"We're going inside the Capitol," Sefu said calmly.
"Yes, Commander!"
The fighter immediately turned toward the others.
"Reload your weapons! We're entering the Capitol!"
Around the courtyard, militia fighters quickly reloaded their weapons. Fresh magazines were slammed into rifles while others checked ammunition belts and grenades. Engines roared as several Toyota pickup trucks rolled forward through the smoke toward the Capitol's massive main gate.
Inside the underground bunker beneath the Capitol, President Emmanuel sat beside his wife in suffocating silence.
His wife tightly held their young son against her chest, shielding the child as if her arms alone could protect him from the chaos above. The boy had no understanding of what was happening outside. All he could hear were distant explosions, hurried footsteps above the bunker, and the constant rumble of gunfire shaking the walls around them.
Dust drifted from the ceiling with every nearby blast.
Back at the main gate, Sefu raised his hand and signaled toward another fighter across the line.
The man immediately ran toward the rear seat of a nearby Toyota Hilux. Opening the door, he pulled out a heavy pack containing blocks of C4 explosives, detonators, and wiring equipment.
Keeping low, the fighter sprinted toward the giant steel gate guarding the Capitol entrance.
Meanwhile, while the militia focused on planting the explosives at the main gate, the Royal Special Forces finally reached the outer perimeter of the presidential compound.
Moving through the shadows of shattered walls and burning vehicles, the elite soldiers advanced carefully with their M4 rifles raised.
Almost immediately, they spotted several militia fighters chasing down retreating government soldiers deeper inside the compound.
Everything happened too fast.
Most of the militia never expected to encounter the Royal Special Forces from that direction.
The captain raised his rifle.
"Engage."
The night suddenly erupted with sharp bursts of M4 gunfire.
One militia fighter was struck in the chest before he could even turn around, his body collapsing onto the pavement. Another spun violently after rounds tore through his shoulder and neck, dropping his rifle as he crashed beside a burning barricade.
The remaining militia fighters panicked.
"enemy left!" one of them shouted too late.
More controlled bursts echoed through the compound.
Unlike the wild suppressive fire from the militia, the elite soldiers fired with cold precision. Every shot was disciplined. Every movement calculated.
One fighter attempted to dive behind a concrete barrier, but bullets punched through the thin cover, sending him crumpling to the ground. Another tried raising his AK-47, only for a burst from an M4 rifle to strike him before he could fire.
Within seconds, the militia unit was wiped out.
Smoke drifted across the bloodstained courtyard as spent shell casings scattered around the boots of the advancing elite soldiers.
"Keep moving," the captain ordered coldly.
Without slowing down, the Elite Forces pushed deeper into the presidential compound toward the Capitol itself.
By the time they reached the main building, almost all the soldiers and security personnel were gone.
Only bodies remained.
Dead government troops lay sprawled across the marble floor and stairways, their rifles scattered beside them. Blood smeared across shattered tiles while emergency lights flickered weakly through the smoke-filled hallways.
The elite entered the first floor in tight formation, rifles raised and scanning every direction.
Step by step, they moved deeper into the Capitol.
Their boots echoed against the floor as they cleared every corner, every hallway, every doorway with practiced precision. One operator covered the left angle while another watched the rear. Laser sights swept through the darkness as they advanced toward the underground bunker entrance.
Finally, they reached a narrow hallway near a side office.
One operator immediately took position near the entrance, rifle aimed down the corridor while the others secured the area.
Captain Amandau approached a wooden side table positioned against the wall.
Without hesitation, he shoved it aside.
The hidden steel hatch beneath the floor was revealed.
A thick gray metal door.
Amandau crouched down and opened a pouch from his tactical bag. He pulled out a security keycard along with a small access device.
Quickly inserting the key into the lock, he entered the security combination.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
A heavy metallic click echoed from beneath the floor.
Then Amandau grabbed the hatch handle and pulled.
The steel door slowly opened.
Inside the bunker, President Emmanuel immediately looked up.
"Captain Amandau!" Emmanuel exclaimed in relief.
His wife tightened her grip around their frightened son as the elite soldiers surrounded the bunker entrance.
"Sir, we're leaving," Amandau said firmly. "The west is against us!."
Then—
A violent explosion shook the entire Capitol.
Dust rained from the ceiling as the bunker lights flickered.
The main gate had been breached.
Above them, distant gunfire suddenly erupted once more—louder, closer, more chaotic than before.
The militia had entered the compound.
Back at the surface level, armed fighters flooded through the destroyed main gate like a wave.
"Clear the compound!" one militia fighter shouted.
The remaining wounded soldiers who had failed to retreat were mercilessly gunned down where they lay. Gunfire echoed across the courtyard as militia trucks rolled through the burning entrance.
Walking calmly behind the advancing fighters was Commander Sefu.
Unlike the others, he showed no urgency.
A cigar rested between his lips while his AK-47 hung casually across his shoulder, supported by one hand. Smoke drifted from the cigar as he stepped over bodies and shattered debris, his cold eyes fixed on the Capitol ahead.
Inside the building, one of the elite operators suddenly spoke through the radio.
"Captain—we've got movement all around the compound."
Jabari checked the hallway window.
"They're surrounding the building."
Amandau's expression hardened.
Without hesitation, he ordered the president to remain inside the tunnel. The command was sharp.
The militia had already flooded the outer courtyard, cutting off nearly every possible escape route.
No vehicles. No safe exits. No reinforcements.
They were trapped.
For a brief second, silence filled the hallway.
Then Amandau calmly raised his rifle.
"Defensive positions," he ordered.
Instantly, the Royal Special Forces moved with terrifying efficiency.
Two operators overturned heavy furniture and created firing positions near the hallway entrance. Another smashed the lights in the corridor, plunging sections of the floor into darkness to limit enemy visibility.
One operator planted a claymore mine near the staircase while another covered the rear angle with unwavering aim.
No panic. No wasted movement.
Only discipline.
Moments later—
Militia fighters stormed into the Capitol lobby.
The first fighter barely made it through the doorway before a suppressed burst from an M4 rifle dropped him instantly.
"Contact front!"
Gunfire exploded through the hallways.
The elite soldiers fired in short, controlled bursts, striking targets with brutal precision. Every corner became a kill zone.
One militia fighter attempted to rush the staircase—
The claymore mine detonated violently, shredding the entire front line and filling the hallway with smoke, blood, and concrete fragments.
Screams echoed through the Capitol.
But more militia kept coming.
Dozens of them.
The Elite slowly fell back room by room, maintaining formation while covering one another with disciplined fire.
"Reloading!"
"Covering!"
"Move!"
Even outnumbered and surrounded, the elite unit fought like machines.
But one fighter enter the hallway carrying an RPG on his shoulder
The moment the gunner stepped forward, Amandau's eyes locked onto the tube.
"RPG!" one of his men shouted.
No hesitation.
"BREAK CONTACT—MOVE!" Amandau barked.
The elite didn't wait for impact.
They vanished from the kill lane.
Two operators slammed a pre-set smoke charge against the floor junction—white phosphorus smoke flooding the hallway in seconds, swallowing visibility.
The first rocket fired.
It struck the corner they had just vacated—concrete exploded outward, shrapnel ripping through the smoke-filled corridor.
But the elite were already gone.
Then another burst of gunfire erupted from the hallway as Jabari exchanged fire from the other side.
A militia fighter suddenly threw a grenade. It bounced across the floor toward Amandau's position.
"Grenade!" one of the operators shouted.
The grenade detonated with a deafening blast. Dust and fragments slammed across the narrow corridor. One operator cried out in pain, clutching the bleeding side of his neck as ringing filled everyone's ears. The elite operators rose almost instantly from the floor. Amandau ripped a cylindrical smoke canister from his vest, yanked the pin with his teeth, and hurled it down the hallway. Thick white smoke erupted violently, flooding the corridor within seconds. "Suppress the hallway!" Amandau shouted. An operator stepped forward and unleashed controlled bursts from his M4 into the smoke-filled corridor. Muzzle flashes strobed through the haze. Screams echoed from somewhere inside. But the militia kept coming. Gunfire erupted back through the smoke blindly—wild, relentless, endless. Rounds hammered the walls. Concrete chips exploded everywhere. Another RPG rocket suddenly screamed through the corridor. "MOVE MOVE MOVE!" The rocket slammed into the far wall behind them. The explosion shook the entire hallway. One elite operator was thrown violently against the concrete wall, his rifle slipping from his hands as he stopped moving. Amandau glanced at the body for only half a second. No time. No emotion. Only survival. "Fall back to the secondary corridor!" he ordered immediately. The elite unit retreated in disciplined formation, one covering while the others moved. But even Amandau could feel it now. They were being buried alive inside the Capitol. Every hallway they abandoned was instantly flooded by militia fighters screaming war cries through the smoke. While covering from the corner, Amandau raised his hand—signaling the operators behind him to hold their fire. The voices of the approaching militia echoed through the smoke-filled hallway, growing louder with every second. Closer. Closer. Then movement appeared through the haze. "Fire!" The elite operators burst from cover, rifles unleashing a wall of gunfire down the corridor. Three militia fighters dropped instantly, their bodies collapsing onto the bloodstained floor. The fighters behind them immediately stumbled back in panic. But then— A grenade suddenly bounced across the hallway. "GRENADE!" The explosion ripped through the corridor. two militia fighter was thrown violently backward, slamming against the concrete wall before collapsing motionless onto the floor. Dust and smoke swallowed the hallway once again. Outside the Capitol, Sefu watched the battle unfold with growing frustration. Assault after assault, wave upon wave of militia fighters had stormed the building for hours, yet the elite soldiers inside still held their ground—still surviving, still cutting down his men with terrifying precision. His face twisted into pure rage. "Send everyone in. All of them. No holding back."
Hundreds of militia fighters surged forward at his command, rushing every entrance, smashing through doors and windows, and flooding into the corridors like a rising tide. Their shouts and gunfire echoed throughout the entire building, a deafening roar that grew louder with every passing second. Inside, the elite operators stood shoulder to shoulder, led by Amandau, their backs to the inner chambers and the underground bunker far below—where the President remained hidden.
The first wave crashed into them. Rifle fire cracked through the hallways as bullets slammed into walls, pillars, and floors in sharp bursts of sparks. Amandau fired his M4 in short, controlled bursts, dropping fighters one after another as they tried to push forward. His men fought with the same cold, lethal discipline—every shot counted, every movement precise. But the militia kept coming. More poured in from every direction, rushing through side passages, breaking through barricades, pressing forward without fear or hesitation.
"Hold the line!" Amandau roared, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Not one step back!"
They held. For minutes that felt like hours. But the sheer weight of numbers began to take its toll. The hallway filled with thick, acrid gunsmoke that stung their eyes and burned their lungs. Magazines were swapped faster now; rifles grew hot enough to sear their hands. Every operator counted their remaining rounds carefully—each bullet had become precious.
One operator fired until his rifle clicked empty. He drew his sidearm and kept shooting, dropping two more attackers before he was forced to reload. Another fought from behind an overturned table, steadily picking off targets until a burst of fire shredded his cover, forcing him to move. Still, they didn't break. Amandau moved between his men, steadying them, directing fire, always placing himself at the most hard-pressed point. He knew that if this corridor fell, the bunker would fall with it. Everything they were protecting would be lost.
Charge after charge slammed into them. The militia surged forward again and again, screaming and firing wildly, desperate to overwhelm the thin defensive line. The air grew thick with smoke, spent casings littered the floor ankle-deep, and the walls were scarred and pocked from hundreds of impacts. Sweat soaked their uniforms, muscles burned from the strain, and their breathing came fast and ragged—but their aim never wavered.
"Sir—we're running low!" one operator shouted, slamming his last loaded magazine into his rifle. "Almost dry!"
Amandau checked his own weapon—only one magazine left. He looked at his men: faces grim, exhausted, but unbroken. Every one of them knew what this meant. This was the end of the line.
"Then we make every shot count," Amandau answered firmly. "We fight until there's nothing left to fire. Then we fight with whatever we have left. We do not yield."
The next assault was the largest yet. The militia came in a screaming, rushing mass, firing wildly as they closed the distance. The elite soldiers opened fire with everything they had left, tearing into the advancing crowd. Men fell, but others simply stepped over them. One by one, rifles fell silent as they ran dry. Operators switched to pistols, then to knives, and finally to hand-to-hand combat as the militia reached them. It became a brutal, close-quarters slaughter—blows, grunts, the crack of bone and steel.
One by one, the elite operators fell—still fighting, still killing until their final breath. Soon only a handful remained, armed with nothing but empty weapons or sidearms. Then, finally, total silence came from their side. Every magazine spent. Every round gone.
Amandau stood in the center of the hallway, with his M4 completely empty. The militia paused for a moment, stunned by the sheer cost of breaking through. Then they roared and surged forward once more.
Outside the Capitol, Sefu watched as the gunfire inside finally died down. The shouting and fighting faded, replaced by the triumphant cries of his men echoing through the building. A slow, cruel smile spread across his face. It was finally over.
But then—from the main entrance—figures emerged.
Amandau stepped out first, bloodied and battered, his uniform torn and stained, gripping his empty rifle like a club. Behind him came the last few surviving operators—barely standing, exhausted beyond measure, weapons empty, yet still moving with the same unyielding resolve. They looked like ghosts walking out of a battlefield that should have swallowed them whole.
The militia outside froze. Their celebrations died instantly. They had expected surrender. They had expected bodies. Not this.
From across the courtyard, Commander Sefu lowered his rifle, staring in disbelief. After every charge, every bullet, every sacrifice—they were still there. Still standing. Still defiant.
"Finish them!" a militia leader screamed.
A storm of gunfire erupted. Hundreds of rounds tore across the courtyard, slamming into the ground and walls around them. Amandau didn't flinch. He didn't run. He stood tall, empty rifle raised as if still ready to fight, even with no bullets left. His men stood beside him, unbowed, even as bullets struck the ground at their feet and slammed into their bodies.
One by one, his men fell—still standing straight until their legs gave out, still staring their enemies in the eye until the very end.
Now only Amandau remained. Alone before the Capitol entrance. Behind him, the scarred and silent building stood filled with the dead and the echoes of battle. In front of him, hundreds of militia fighters aimed their weapons, ready to fire again.
Blood ran down his face and chest. His breath came in ragged, painful gasps. His grip tightened on his useless rifle. Even now, with nothing left to fight with, he refused to bend. He lifted his head high, looked straight at Sefu across the courtyard, and shouted with every last ounce of strength left in his body—
"Here's the revised version with your requested changes:
---
"ZARAKHANDA!"
His voice boomed across the courtyard, loud and clear, cutting through every other sound.
Then the final volley came.
Bullets slammed into him, wrenching his body violently. His fingers loosened on the rifle. His knees buckled. But for one long, final moment, he remained standing—head high, eyes locked on his enemies, defiant to the very end.
Only then did his body give out. Amandau collapsed onto the bloodstained concrete, and silence finally fell over the Capitol.
Sefu lowered his rifle, staring at the fallen commander for a moment before spitting on the ground. He turned to his right-hand man, a scarred fighter named Kael.
"sadiq, get over here."
sadiq approached quickly. Sefu motioned toward one of the nearby technical vehicles.
"Bring me the blueprints of the Capitol. Now."
Sadiq retrieved a thick roll of documents from inside the truck and spread them across the hood. Sefu leaned over them, scanning the layout with sharp eyes. After a few seconds, he jabbed his finger at a specific spot on the lower level.
"There. The underground bunker. That's where the President is hiding. Take twenty men and get down there. Breach it."
"Yes, sir."
A group of armed militia fighters quickly moved out, following Sadiq into the battered building. They navigated through the smoke-filled corridors, stepping over bodies and shattered debris until they reached the heavy reinforced door leading to the bunker.
They tried everything. First, crowbars were wedged into the seams, multiple men straining against the steel with grunts and curses. The door didn't budge. Frustrated, they opened fire—rifle rounds hammering loudly against the thick metal, sparks flying everywhere with each impact.
Deep inside the bunker, President Emmanuel's wife, Elena, flinched violently at the sound. Each metallic clang of bullets striking the door made her heart pound harder. She pressed herself against the far wall, hands trembling as she clutched their ten-year-old son, Lucas, close to her chest.
"They're here…" she whispered, her voice cracking with panic. "Oh God, they're here."
Back at the door, the militia grew more aggressive. One fighter pulled a grenade from his vest, yanking the pin with his teeth.
"Wait!" another fighter shouted, grabbing his arm. "Don't waste it. We still have C4 left in the truck. That door's too thick for a grenade. Let's do it properly."
The man with the grenade hesitated, then nodded and slid it back into his vest.
Outside, Sefu stood motionless, eyes fixed on the Capitol entrance, a cold, satisfied glint in his stare as he waited for the final prize.
Meanwhile, in the southwestern region of Zarakhanda—an underdeveloped province filled with guesthouses for foreigners—Tavongo.
Dr. Jeanne, exhausted and slightly hungover from several nights of partying after long and grueling fieldwork, lay asleep in her hotel room.
At 8:30 AM, she was jolted awake by the vibration of her phone on the side table. As she reached for it, the vibration stopped.
She unlocked the screen.
Eight missed calls. Four text messages.
She tapped one.
"Have you seen the news? You better leave Zarakhanda now!"
Her brows furrowed, eyes still swollen with sleep.
She opened Google Chrome and typed: "Latest news today for Zarakhanda."
Any trace of drowsiness vanished instantly.
Images filled the screen—the presidential residence, known as "The Capitol," reduced to ruins, still smoking. A massive flag of the Moto wa Mapinduzi militia waved above it, while fighters celebrated alongside sympathetic civilians.
Another headline appeared:
"The Dictator is Missing"—referring to President Emmanuel of Zarakhanda.
Jeanne shot up from the bed, clutching her forehead. She stared blankly at the screen, unable to process what she was seeing.
Her mind raced.
She glanced at her laptop on the center table, rushed over, and opened it. File after file—documents, photos of specimens from the site—she checked everything frantically.
Grabbing her phone again, she called back a random number from her missed calls. No answer.
She tried the number listed for the Philippine Embassy—but it just kept ringing. No one picked up.
She immediately called Naomi, her colleague from the field site.
Naomi answered—surprisingly calm.
"Hey, Naomi—have you heard what's happening in Kuruva?!" Jeanne asked.
"Yeah, Jeanne. We're watching it right now on CNN."
"Naomi, start packing—we're leaving Zarakhanda!" Jeanne said urgently.
"Jeanne, relax. Kuruva is far from Tavongo," Naomi replied.
"It's not just the fall of Kuruva, Naomi…" Jeanne said, her voice tightening."…it's the fall of the entire country."
After a brief discussion on whether to leave or stay, they decided to meet at the train station in Mutawa-where they would catch a bus to Nigara and head for the Philippine Embassy—Jeanne ended the call.
With the TV still playing on the wall, she hurriedly packed her belongings into her backpack, placing her laptop carefully between layers of clothing inside her luggage.
Then—
A breaking news segment caught her attention.
She froze.
Slowly, she turned toward the TV—her eyes widening in shock.
On the screen—
President Emmanuel.
His forehead was wounded, his face covered in dust, his once-clean long-sleeve shirt now stained with dirt. Blood trickled from his lips.
He was being dragged—pulled by the collar—by two militia fighters armed with AK-47s.
They paraded him through the streets as chaos erupted around them. Civilians shouted and cheered wildly in celebration.
In the distance, thick smoke rising high into the sky.
After packing her things, Jeanne stepped out of the hotel and lined up for the shuttle heading to the train station.
It was crowded.
Inside, the radio played nonstop as passengers murmured about the unfolding crisis. Jeanne stared out the window, unable to comprehend how such a small militia group had managed to topple a government long supported by Western countries.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Naomi appeared on Messenger:
"OTW "—with a photo of her and their fellow fieldworkers inside a rented vehicle.
Jeanne's anxiety deepened.
Then, over the radio—
Breaking News.
Several countries had begun declaring travel bans and enforcing a no-flight zone over Zarakhanda.
"Shit… how are we supposed to get out now?" she muttered, biting the tip of her thumb.
The shuttle sped along the highway when the driver suddenly slowed.
Up ahead, a group of men blocked the road.
They were armed—RPG launchers slung over their shoulders, an M240 machine gun resting on a makeshift stand, and several AK-47s hanging across their chests.
In the middle of the road stood a crude plywood board painted in red letters:
CHECKPOINT
The tension inside the shuttle tightened instantly.
These weren't Kambara police.
They wore jeans and T-shirts, some in jogging pants and cheap jackets. Their faces were wrapped with cloth masks.
Militia.
The shuttle rolled to a stop.
One of the men approached the driver's window and demanded his license. After inspecting it, he gave a short signal to the others.
Another man stepped forward and climbed inside the shuttle.
In his hand was a printed photograph.
He slowly scanned the passengers—one face at a time. His eyes lingered on each person standing in the crowded aisle, but the packed shuttle made it difficult for him to see the passengers at the back.
Then his gaze stopped.
At the far end of the shuttle sat a woman wearing dark sunglasses.
He stared at her.
"Hey… you."
He called again.
"Miss."
Jeanne lifted her head and looked at him.
"Take off your sunglasses."
Her heart hammered violently against her ribs.
But she couldn't let it show.
Keeping her breathing steady, Jeanne slowly removed the sunglasses, her eyes fixed on the man holding the rifle.
The man glanced at the photograph in his hand…
Then back at her.
Seconds stretched into a suffocating silence.
Finally, he turned to the passengers.
"Everyone—out of the shuttle."
Murmurs spread through the crowd.
One by one, the passengers stepped down from the bus.
Within moments, the shuttle was empty.
Except for Jeanne.
The armed men climbed inside just as she began to stand.
One of them stepped closer, staring directly at her.
"Ma'am…"
He extended his hand.
"Your ID."
Jeanne swallowed.
Slowly, she reached into her bag and pulled out her wallet.
Her fingers felt cold as she slid the ID card out and handed it to him.
The man studied it carefully.
His eyes moved from the card…
to her face…
then back again.
Another militia member leaned closer, glancing at the photo he was holding.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then the second man whispered something in a language Jeanne didn't fully understand.
The first man frowned.
He looked back at Jeanne.
"Where are you going?"
"Mutawa," she replied, forcing calm into her voice.
"Why?"
"I have family there."
The man stared at her a little longer.
Then suddenly—
A loud burst of gunfire echoed somewhere in the distance.
Everyone froze.
The militia outside shouted.
Another burst followed.
This time closer.
The men inside the shuttle exchanged quick looks.
One of them rushed to the door and shouted something outside.
Chaos erupted at the checkpoint.
Engines roared.
Someone yelled orders.
And in that single moment of confusion—
The man holding Jeanne's ID looked away.
Just for a second.
But for Jeanne…
That second might be the only chance she had.