The sky was a deep shade of crimson, the sun setting behind the war-torn horizon. Smoke curled from burning wreckage, the acrid scent of death and gunpowder thick in the air. General Viktor "Bloodfang" Kruger stood atop the ruined remains of a rebel outpost, his expression unreadable, his crimson beret barely shifting in the evening breeze. His black tactical vest bore fresh scratches, his dog tags clinking softly against his chest as he surveyed the destruction before him.
The battle had been swift, brutal. Just as he had intended.
Kruger's grip tightened around his modified combat pistol, its barrel still warm from the massacre. A low groan echoed nearby. He turned sharply, his piercing gaze falling on a wounded resistance fighter crawling toward a discarded rifle. The man's fingers trembled as they reached for the weapon.
With lightning-fast precision, he raised his pistol and fired a single shot. The bullet punched through the man's skull, silencing him instantly. Kruger holstered his sidearm, stepping forward as his elite undead enforcers stalked through the carnage, ensuring no one remained.
A voice crackled in his earpiece. "General Kruger, reconnaissance reports movement to the north—survivors attempting to regroup in the abandoned train yard."
Kruger smirked. "They never learn."
He motioned to Sergeant Darius "Hellhound" Rook, who had just emerged from the shadows, his scarred face twisted in anticipation.
"Take your team," Kruger ordered. "Cut them down before they escape. No survivors."
Hellhound grinned, baring his teeth. "With pleasure."
As Rook and his squad vanished into the smoke, Kruger exhaled slowly, glancing toward the city skyline. His enemies still clung to hope, still foolishly believed they could resist. But hope was a fragile thing—a candle in the storm.
And he was the storm.
With a final glance at the battlefield, Kruger adjusted his beret and strode forward. The war was far from over, but soon… soon, the world would kneel before the Undead Overlord.