At exactly three in the morning on July 4, 2032, the silence over the city of Kuruva was shattered.
A thunderous explosion ripped through the sky as F16 fighter Jet bombed the forces of the Zarakhanda National Defence Forces stationed around the capitol.
They had been preparing their defenses against an approaching convoy of more than a hundred radical resistance fighters.
The streets erupted into flames.
Chaos spread among the soldiers. Some immediately fired RPGs, while others unleashed a barrage of AK-47 rounds toward the incoming convoy speeding in from the highway.
Sirens wailed across the entire city.
Civilians flooded the streets in panic. Some scrambled for cover inside nearby establishments, while gunfire and explosions continued to roar through the darkness of the night.
With the overwhelming pressure on the ground, government forces were forced to deploy an aging two Mil Mi-17 military helicopter to support their troops at the capitol.
Only three minutes later, air support arrived.
The helicopter circled overhead, then immediately unleashed its door-mounted machine gun on the militia below, who were locked in a fierce firefight with government troops.
The convoy's vehicles were riddled with bullets as rounds tore through metal and glass.
The militia fired back using an anti-aircraft machine gun mounted on the rear of a Toyota Hilux, but they couldn't land a hit—the helicopter was too fast, constantly shifting direction in the sky.
Under the relentless barrage, the night filled with blazing streaks of tracer ammunition—like red lightning slicing through the darkness—while rounds from the ground whistled violently through the air.
One of the convoy vehicles exploded when a bullet from the helicopter struck a bomb loaded at the back of a Toyota Land Cruiser. Six were killed instantly.
As the battle raged on, several buildings around the capitol began to catch fire. The flames spread quickly to nearby structures.
Above it all, the helicopter swept back and forth across the sky, relentlessly providing support to the ground forces. The battlefield flickered with the burning trails of bullets coming from every direction.
Hours later, additional forces from the Zarakhanda military arrived. Some of them immediately rushed into the capitol to secure the safety of the President and his family.
But the battle was far from over.
Commander Sefu, his AK-47 raised, scanned the battlefield. He spotted a group of his fighters climbing the buildings near the capitol, armed with RPGs, M4s, and submachine guns. From their elevated positions, they unleashed a relentless barrage of gunfire and rockets toward the capitol building.
"Watch your right!" a soldier inside the capitol shouted—
—but it was too late.
An RPG slammed into the perimeter wall and exploded right in front of them.
Meanwhile, as the helicopter's machine-gun fire continued to tear through the convoy vehicles on the streets, a NATO fighter jet suddenly roared across the sky overhead.
Within seconds, it fired a missile.
The missile struck the helicopter.
It exploded midair—engulfed in flames—spinning wildly as it plunged downward before crashing into the residential districts of Kuruva.
Remaining Mi-17 helicopter and its crew had no choice but to keep unleashing a hail of bullets on the militia below. Seconds later, a missile tore through the air and struck the chopper, sending it crashing onto a bridge in Kuruva. The explosion ripped down power lines, plunging nearby homes into darkness.
F16 Pilot: "Fox two, target hit, Mi-17, splash confirmed"
After witnessing what had happened to the two air support units of the Zarakhanda Defence Forces
The militia forces erupted into triumphant cheers.
Three minutes passed.
Then, once again, the thunderous roar of a fighter jet echoed across the sky.
This time, it locked onto five Soviet-era battle tanks—reinforcements from the Zarakhanda National Defence.
One by one, they were hit.
One by one, they exploded along the highway of Kuruva.
As the tanks burned and the city drowned in fire and smoke, the radical militia shouted in unison, "god is great!"
Amid the chaos, Commander Sefu remained calm, speaking on his cellphone while taking slow drags from his tobacco.
"Ah yes, President Emmanuel? No, no problem… for the right price."
He exhaled smoke out the backseat window, ended the call, and stepped out of the vehicle. With a sharp gesture, he signaled the gunner on the anti-aircraft machine gun to aim at the soldiers barely fifty meters away.
In an instant, they unleashed a storm of bullets on the government forces at the capitol.
Rounds tore through concrete and military vehicles alike. Soldiers dropped one after another—some still crawling, desperate to find cover. The walls of the capitol were riddled with holes as equipment on the first floor was shredded to pieces.
As the gunfire raged on, the pressure on the Zarakhanda forces doubled. Some began to tremble in fear, while others hid inside buildings, barely daring to breathe.
With the heavy casualties they had suffered, the field commander of the Zarakhanda forces shouted, "Retreat!"
The soldiers abandoned their positions, climbed over the capitol walls, and fled.
Inside the capitol, deep within its underground bunker, an elite unit of the Zarakhanda forces located the President along with his wife and two children.
"Sir, we are leaving now! The West is against us!" one soldier shouted.
The President said nothing.
At that moment, he realized his forces had already been defeated.
They moved through a secret passage beneath the capitol, escorted by a unit of the Royal Elite of the Zarakhanda Defence Forces.
Outside, thick smoke blanketed the area. Some militia fighters put on respirator masks, while others covered their mouths with scarves wrapped around their necks.
On Commander Sefu's orders, one of the militia retrieved four C4 explosives and planted them on the capitol's main gate.
Seconds later—
The blast tore the steel gate apart.
The militia stormed inside, firing their AK-47s relentlessly, making sure no one among the fallen was still alive.
They moved straight into the ground floor, searching for the rumored secret tunnel of the building.
One of the militia noticed a side table and shoved it aside—revealing a gray steel door, roughly thirty inches wide. They tried prying it open with a crowbar, but the thickness of the steel held firm.
So they riddled it with AK-47 fire. And to make absolutely sure, they tossed a grenade while taking cover at the edge of the wall.
Inside the tunnel, the President and his family were escorted by the Royal Elite toward the exit. Before opening the door, they approached quietly and listened, trying to sense any danger at the mouth of the tunnel.
Outside, more than ten militia members were already waiting. Someone had tipped them off about the exact location of the tunnel—the secret exit behind the capitol's fence.
The captain quickly pulled the President, his wife, and their child back.
"Behind me! Stay behind me!" he ordered firmly.
One of the unit operators stepped forward. He approached the steel gate of the tunnel and suddenly swung it open, tossing a flashbang outside.
One second. Two. BOOM!
A blinding light erupted, accompanied by a sharp, concussive explosion.
In that instant, he raised his submachine gun and aimed down the tunnel's entrance.
"Positive! There are multiple hostiles!" he shouted into the radio.
Outside, chaos erupted among the militia. They blinked and pressed their hands to their eyes, disoriented by the flashbang.
He didn't waste a moment. His finger squeezed the trigger.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
One. Two. Three.
The militia closest to the entrance fell, shot in rapid succession.
But not all had been blinded. From the side of the road, AK-47 fire rang out.
The operator staggered back as a bullet struck his cheek. Blood spread across the side of his face as he pressed a hand to the wound.
"Contact! Contact!" he yelled.
And outside the tunnel, even more militia were closing in.
The wounded operator gasped for air, wiping the blood streaming from his cheek.
The captain peered down the tunnel entrance again. Outside, shadows of militia moved continuously behind vehicles and concrete barricades. There were too many of them.
"Captain, we're going to get overrun here," one of the team muttered, reloading his magazine.
The captain paused for a moment, weighing the situation quickly.
"We can't get trapped here," he muttered under his breath.
"We move now."
He pulled a small cylindrical canister from his vest—a smoke grenade.
"On my signal," he said, glancing at his team.
"Two smokes. Suppressive fire. We exit and fall back to the ridge."
The operators nodded.
The captain pulled the pin, crouched low, and hurled the first smoke grenade out of the tunnel. Immediately after, the second followed. PSSSSHHHH!
Thick white smoke rapidly filled the entrance, blanketing the area and masking their movements.
The thick smoke covered the entire street and the positions of the militia.
"NOW!"
They surged out of the tunnel together.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
The captain and an operator unleashed suppressive fire while the smoke rapidly concealed their movements. Outside, visibility was almost zero.
"Move! Move!"
They sprinted forward, carrying the President—one on each side—ducking as they ran. Bullets cracked again from the other side of the smoke.
Ratatatatatat!
Rounds whistled through the air, striking the ground dangerously close to where they ran.
"Thirty meters to the ridge!" one of the operators shouted.
As they ran, two operators stayed behind to provide cover fire.
One operator carried the President's ten-year-old child, weaving through narrow alleyways until they reached an old white Nissan van parked behind a nearby establishment.
The two operators fell back, staying behind the cover of the smoke—when they heard a new sound.
A heavy engine rumbled.
Gradually, the shadow of a pickup truck appeared, a heavy machine gun mounted on its rear.
But before it could open fire, they were already sprinting away, weaving through the same alleyways their team had passed moments earlier.
Several militia entered the tunnel, finding it empty. Suddenly, the sound of footsteps echoed from the far end—fading slowly. They raised their AK-47s toward the direction of the noise, listening carefully, waiting for any sign of movement.
When nothing appeared, they cautiously advanced, holding their breath.
Then, without warning, the finger on the trigger of the lead fighter squeezed.
TRATATATAT!
One fell instantly, followed by a rapid succession of gunfire. Shouts and curses filled the tunnel in panic. Two were killed on the other side, while others were hit and wounded.
After several minutes of firefight, they realized—horrifyingly—that they had been shooting at their own comrades, militia who had entered from the capitol.
"YOU IDIOTS! IT'S US!" shouted one fighter at the far end.
"OUT! HANDS UP!" responded someone from the other side.
"FUCK! YOU KILLED SALIK!"
Everyone froze. Salik was well known—Commander Sefu's nephew.
Once they confirmed Salik's body on the ground, a few of the militia emerged from the tunnel—wounded, shocked, terrified, especially knowing what Sefu would do when he learned how his nephew died.
"Radio! Radio!" shouted one fighter.
A young fighter clutching an AK-74 ran forward, grabbed the radio, and pressed it. He informed Sefu's group that the President had escaped and needed to be pursued.
After Sefu received the message, the twelve vehicles in the convoy roared to life, carrying around forty-five militia members. They sped down the highway, aiming to intercept the President's getaway vehicle.
The target vehicle was already pulling away when the two operators, carrying their submachine guns, arrived. Amandou shouted to grab their attention.
The van's door opened mid-motion. The two operators sprinted, leapt inside, and slammed the door shut. Thick dust swirled around them as the van accelerated.
30 to 40 kph. A sharp left. A sudden right.
For thirty minutes, the van raced down the highway toward the extraction point. Silence filled the cabin—tense and heavy. The exhaustion and fear were written clearly on the faces of the President's wife and child.
"What's your name, son?" the President asked.
"I'm Captain Amandou," the man replied. "I'm one you sent to Moscow back then."
The President patted Amandou on the shoulder—a silent way of saying, good job, for now. as he remembered the days He use to have the program to train several soldiers in an elite level to Russia.
Suddenly, the President's cellphone rang in his pocket. He answered.
"Hello! Who's this—?"
Silence.
He lowered the phone. Seconds later, it rang again, but still no one responded.
As he set the phone down… BAGAG!!!
A red Toyota Tacoma slammed into the side of their vehicle, emerging from a corner. The driver lost control. The van skidded into a house, tearing along the edges of the street.
"Keep driving!" Amandou shouted, watching the driver struggle to regain control.
From a distance, bullets began piercing the van. One operator ducked the President, his wife, and child low. Then they fired back at the assailants behind them.
BRATATATATAT!
Amandou realized someone might be monitoring them from the air. He reached for the President's cellphone to throw it out of the vehicle—but the President refused.
"There's important information here that could put Zarakhanda at the center of a global war!" the President said firmly.
In the convoy, Sefu signaled the lead vehicles.
"Double time!" he shouted.
The vehicles accelerated even more. Under the streetlights, the thick smoke and dust kicked up by their tires was clearly visible.
Sefu noticed a militia fighter standing behind a Toyota Hilux, RPG aimed at the van they were chasing.
"HEY! HEY! DON'T! I NEED HIM ALIVE!" Sefu yelled.
The fighter in the other truck didn't hear him over the roar of the engines. But the man beside him quickly grabbed the RPG and lowered its aim.
From thirty meters away, they spotted the white van suddenly turning into a narrow alley between buildings. Some convoy vehicles slammed on their brakes.
A pickup truck followed and entered the alley. The second truck went in as soon as it saw the first fit through. Then came the third.
The rest of the convoy maneuvered around, searching for alternative routes to intercept the white van.
6:30 AM. The blue, dusty light of dawn began to creep over the city, casting long shadows over the chaotic streets.
Sefu's group was still searching for the van through the residential streets of Dakala District. Some of their vehicles couldn't advance, blocked by the narrow lanes.
Sefu stood by the highway, next to his car with several other militia, speaking on the line with a contact connected to Central Intelligence. The contact promised to provide information on the van—the President's getaway vehicle—using a copy of a spy satellite feed.
Meanwhile, news and social media were spreading rapidly: the Zarakhanda government had fallen into the hands of the "Moto wa Mapinduzi" militia. A video captured on an Android phone showed two fighters, rifles slung across their backs, hoisting a red flag atop the capitol. Smoke still rose from the surrounding area, the third floor recently engulfed in flames. The fighters fired their weapons into the air with joy, flashing peace signs.
The flag rose on the breeze, displaying a hyena's head, a black sword emblem below it, and an Arabic emblem at the top.
By 7:20 AM, crowds had filled the highways of Kuruva, celebrating the fall of Emmanuel's regime. People filmed videos, held placards reading "NO MORE DICTATOR" and "SURRENDER OR DIE."
But not everyone was rejoicing. Through text and messenger apps, civilian loyalists of President Emmanuel began gathering, armed with weapons long hidden in the corners of their homes.
In a wide open area of the city, the celebrating crowds suddenly scattered as gunfire erupted from a distance. According to an African news agency, 12 were killed.
While the small and once-unknown nation of Zarakhanda captured the world's attention due to the chaos and civil war, inside a modest house made of concrete with a steel roof—its small garage hiding a vehicle covered in a black tarp—the President and the captain spoke in low voices.
The operators remained on edge. Some sat on the sofa, clutching their submachine guns, while one stood by the window, watching the distance.
Amandou spread a map of Zarakhanda across the table.
He pointed to military bases in the southern region—now destroyed by airstrikes—as well as an arms storage facility at Watalu Port. Several generals had already gone missing, and communication with them had been completely lost.
"Sir, you need to get out of this country as soon as possible," Amandou said to Emmanuel.
"Is there a safe route?" Emmanuel replied.
"Yes—if you entrust me with your phone."
Emmanuel looked at him, in an angry glare.
"You've been tracked through your phone, Mr. President," Amandou said.
"How about we just destroy or burn this phone right now?" Emmanuel said.
For a few seconds, Amandou said nothing.
"Sir… even if we destroy your phone, they'll still know the last location where it was active—right here, where we're standing," Amandou replied.
In the kitchen, the homeowner—a mother preparing food for the exhausted soldiers and the President's family—could already hear the heated argument.
Her child slowly edged closer to the wall, peeking out, just as Amandou began forcing the phone out of the President's hand.
"Sir, this is for your safety!" Amandou insisted, struggling against Emmanuel's grip.
"This isn't about me! It's for the people of Zarakhanda!" Emmanuel shot back, pulling his hand away.
Meanwhile, thirty minutes later, Sefu received an email on his smartphone.
He tapped the link.
A map of the entire Dakala District appeared. Among the countless houses, one was circled—marked with an address, along with the names of the people living there.
Sefu began walking with his men into the residential area of Dakala District. The locals recognized him instantly. Some starred in fear, others hurried inside their homes.
A woman carrying a bucket of water balanced on her head crossed his path.
"Hey, woman—come here. You want a job?" Sefu called out.
The woman lowered her gaze.
"…Yeah. What is it?"
Meanwhile, inside the house—after hours of arguing and struggling—Amandou finally managed to wrest the phone from the President's grip.
"HOW DARE YOU DO THIS!? I AM STILL THE COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF OF THE ZARKHANDA DEFENCE FORCES! IS THAT WHAT YOU LEARNED IN MOSCOW!?" Emmanuel shouted in fury.
Amandou stood there, breathing heavily.
"Sorry, sir… this is for your safe—"
He was cut off by a woman's voice calling out the name "Zola" from outside. She stood in front of the steel gate.
From the window, one of the operators noticed her glancing toward the tarp-covered vehicle inside the garage.
From the kitchen, Zola stepped into the living room.
"Do you know that woman?" one of the operators asked.
Zola peeked outside.
"No."
For two full minutes, Zola didn't let the woman in as she remain silent—following Amandou's orders—despite her calling out repeatedly and banging on the gate. Eventually, the woman left.
Amandou turned back to Emmanuel, pressing further—this time demanding the phone's password.
The President refused.
"Just kill me now!" Emmanuel snapped.
His wife stood up, pleading for them to stop arguing.
"Please… we can talk about that after we get out of Zarakhanda!"
Amandou sighed, then announced he would step out to gather information and find a safe route out of Dakala District. He ordered two of his men to come with him.
As he descended the stairs, Amandou used his keypad phone to contact a technician he knew—asking if it was possible to unlock the smartphone.
When they reached the garage, he pulled off the tarp covering the van and opened the gate.
The engine roared to life.
The van reversed out—then moved forward—
CRACK!
A bullet pierced through the windshield, striking the driver in the face. His body slumped forward against the steering wheel.
Amandou, seated in the front, immediately returned fire.
TRATATATATAT!
He fired blindly, not even knowing where the enemy was positioned.
But the incoming fire was overwhelming. From about twenty-five meters away, bullets tore into the vehicle relentlessly. The operator in the backseat never even made it out—his body slumped against the seat, bloodied, lifeless.
As the van was riddled with gunfire, Amandou desperately tried to control the steering wheel—but more rounds struck him, one after another, until his body finally gave out.
Within seconds, everything fell silent.
The militia slowly emerged from their cover once they realized the van was no longer responding.
Sefu ordered two of his men to approach. They opened the door.
One of them glanced into the distance, then raised both hands—signaling toward Sefu's position.
There were no survivors inside.
The two operators left inside the house—Private Jabari and Corporal Musa—were immediately alerted.
Fear gripped the homeowner's family as gunfire echoed outside, and stray bullets shattered parts of the windows, leaving holes in the glass.
Without hesitation, the two operators ordered the President and his family to find cover in the corners of the house. They moved quickly into the kitchen, while the soldiers took positions in the living room, their submachine guns aimed directly at the entrance.
If the militia forced their way in, they were ready to pull the trigger without hesitation.
Minutes passed.
Then they heard it—
Footsteps outside.
The clinking of metal. The faint rattle of ammunition hanging from a fighter's body.
Their grip on their weapons tightened.
Then—
The sound of a doorknob slowly turning. Someone was trying to force it open.
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 Zarakhanda?!" 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 agreeing 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, several houses burned, 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 to herself, biting the tip of her thumb.
While on the highway, the driver noticed a group blocking the road ahead.
They were armed—RPGs, an M240 machine gun, and AK-47s.
A crude plywood sign stood in the middle of the road:
"CHECKPOINT."
Tension inside the shuttle spiked instantly.
These weren't Kambara police.
They wore jeans and T-shirts, their faces covered with cloth. Some were in jogging pants and jackets—militia.
The shuttle came to a stop.
One man approached the driver and demanded his license. After checking it, he signaled his companions.
Another man stepped forward and climbed into the shuttle. He held a printed photo of a woman.
He scanned the passengers one by one—looking closely at their faces, especially those standing. But the crowd made it difficult for him to reach the back.
Then his attention fixed on a woman wearing sunglasses at the far end.
He called out to her. Once. Twice.
Jeanne looked at him.
"Miss, can you take off your sunglasses?"
Her heart pounded—but she couldn't show it.
Forcing herself to stay calm, she slowly removed her sunglasses, her eyes locked on the man holding the rifle.
He glanced at the photo in his hand… then back at her.
Seconds passed.
Then he turned to the passengers.
"Everyone, get out of the shuttle."
One by one, everyone inside the shuttle bus got off, leaving only Jeanne inside. They approached Jeanne just as she was about to stand up to get out of the bus.
"Ma'am, can we have your ID!?"
Jeanne could do nothing but pull out her wallet to take out her ID.