The battlefield was silent now. Only the crackling of fire and the occasional groan of the dying remained. General Viktor 'Bloodfang' Kruger stood in the midst of the carnage, his bloodstained knife resting against his gloved fingers. His piercing gaze swept over the remains of the rebels, their bodies broken and lifeless in the dirt. They had fought hard, but hard was never enough.
Kruger ran a finger along the blade, wiping away a streak of crimson. His knife was more than a weapon—it was a symbol. A tool of judgment. He had wielded it through countless wars, carving his legacy into the flesh of those who opposed him.
A few feet away, Sergeant Darius 'Hellhound' Rook stepped forward, gripping his shotgun. "The rebels are finished, General. But we found something… unusual."
Kruger didn't look up. "Unusual?"
"One of their leaders is still alive. He's asking for you by name."
Kruger's eyes narrowed. He sheathed his knife and motioned for Rook to lead the way.
As they walked past the smoldering wreckage, the air was thick with the scent of death and gunpowder. They reached a makeshift outpost where Eva 'Black Widow' Morales stood, arms crossed. At her feet, a bloodied rebel knelt, his face battered, his breathing shallow. But there was no fear in his eyes—only defiance.
Kruger crouched down, tilting his head slightly. "You know who I am."
The rebel spat blood onto the ground. "I know what you are."
Kruger's lips curled into a smirk. "And yet, here you are. Kneeling before me like all the rest."
The rebel chuckled weakly. "You think this is over? You may have slaughtered my people, but you've only fueled the fire. More will come. More than you can ever kill."
Kruger exhaled through his nose. The same, tired speech.
He unsheathed his knife once more, twirling it between his fingers. "Tell me, soldier. Do you fear death?"
The rebel met his gaze. "No."
Kruger nodded approvingly. "Good." In a swift, practiced motion, he drove the blade deep into the rebel's chest. The man gasped, his body convulsing before slumping forward. A warrior's death. Quick, clean, and inevitable.
Morales watched, unimpressed. "You didn't even ask him for intel."
Kruger stood, wiping the blade clean once more. "He had nothing to offer. A man who accepts death has already given up his secrets."
He turned to Rook and Morales, his expression hardening. **"Burn the rest of the bodies. Then we move. This was only a skirmish. The real war is coming."