23:30 – May 22, 2023 – 40,000 Feet Above the Conshal Archipelago

The roar of twin General Electric F110 engines rumbled through the skies as two Chilean Air Force F-16 fighter jets soared high above the Gra Valkan fleet, their sleek, gray bodies cutting through the clouds like falcons preparing to strike. 

Major Alejandro Velasquez adjusted his helmet, eyes locked onto the burning wreckage of the GVS Wolfram below. From this altitude, the destroyed warship looked like a floating bonfire, its metal carcass groaning as seawater swallowed it whole.

His wingman, Captain Rodrigo Fuentes, let out a low whistle through the comms.

"We for real this time? No negotiate and just bomb their ass like that?"

Alejandro smirked, gripping the joystick of his F-16 tightly. "That was the whole point of coming here, wasn't it?"

Down below, the Gra Valkan fleet was still scrambling in chaos, their searchlights frantically sweeping the sky and ocean, desperately searching for the phantom enemy that had just obliterated one of their warships.

They had no idea that their doom was still hovering right above them.

Rodrigo chuckled. "Man, I kinda feel bad. They're still using—what, 1940s radar? Bro, these guys are cooked."

Alejandro shook his head. "No pity for fascists."

The HUD of his F-16 flickered, bringing up the weapons systems. Two AGM-84 Harpoon anti-ship missiles were locked and ready, their payload primed to send another imperial warship straight to the abyss.

Then, the radio crackled.

"Condor-1, this is command. Target priority update. Do you have a visual on the Grade Atlastar-class battleship?"

Alejandro's eyes narrowed as he scanned the fleet below. Then he saw it.

A massive, hulking warship—larger than anything else in the formation—cutting through the water with ominous power.

Rodrigo whistled again. "That's their Yamato, isn't it?"

Alejandro's smirk widened.

"You know where the ammunition storage is located on that Yamato, right?"

Rodrigo laughed. "Oh-ho-ho, I like where this is going."

Alejandro tightened his grip on the joystick. "Let's see if that Gra Valkan Yamato can survive one hit from a democracy missile..."

The command came swiftly.

"Condor-1, Condor-2—permission granted. You are clear to engage. Repeat, you are clear to engage."

Rodrigo exhaled sharply, lining up his targeting reticle. "Copy that. One democracy missile coming right up."

Alejandro switched to ground attack mode, his F-16's targeting computer locking onto the Gra Valkan battleship's magazine storage—the most vulnerable spot on the ship.

One hit. One explosion. One battleship gone.

His finger hovered over the trigger, his heart pounding in anticipation.

This was going to be historic.

May 22, 1639 – Aboard the Grade Atlastar-Class Battleship GVS Barbarossa

The flames of the GVS Wolfram still raged in the distance, its twisted remains barely afloat as sailors screamed for help, their voices drowned by the roaring inferno.

But on the bridge of the GVS Barbarossa, there was no time to mourn.

Because hell wasn't finished with them yet.

"INCOMING PROJECTILE! HIGH-SPEED CONTACT DETECTED!"

The shriek of the radar operator's voice cut through the bridge like a blade. Every officer in the room stiffened, their eyes locking onto the radar screen—where a second high-speed contact was now racing toward them.

Kommodore Augustin Krieger's blood turned to ice.

"Another one?!"

"No—TWO MORE, SIR!"

The entire bridge crew froze in place, the realization crashing down on them.

They weren't just under attack.
They were being systematically destroyed.

Less than a kilometer away, the GVS Eisenwald, another Gra Valkan destroyer, was moving into position—its crew scrambling to lock onto whatever ghost enemy was slaughtering them.

On its deck, sailors frantically manned anti-aircraft cannons, swinging their turrets wildly, searching for something—anything—to shoot at.

They never saw it coming.

FWOOOOOSH!

A second missile cut through the sky, streaking toward them at Mach 0.9—far too fast for their WW2-era fire control systems to react.

Some of the sailors on deck managed to look up—just in time to see death screaming toward them.

Then—

BOOOOOM!

The missile slammed directly into the Eisenwald's midsection, punching through its thin hull armor before detonating inside its engine room.

For a brief second, the entire destroyer trembled.

Then—

A massive explosion tore it in half, sending fire, shrapnel, and human bodies soaring into the night sky.

The shockwave rippled across the ocean, sending violent waves crashing against the remaining Gra Valkan ships.

Within ten seconds, the Eisenwald was gone, its shattered remains slipping beneath the waves, leaving nothing but a boiling patch of ocean where it once stood.

"EISENWALD IS DOWN! I REPEAT, EISENWALD IS DOWN!"

The radio transmission barely finished before the radar technician screamed again.

"TWO MORE INCOMING! TARGET—GVS BARBAROSSA!"

The air inside the bridge became suffocating, the scent of oil, sweat, and fear mixing together into a sickening cocktail.

They were next.

Kommodore Krieger's face was a mask of disbelief and rage.

"ALL HANDS, BRACE FOR IMPACT!—"

BWWWWEEEEEEOOOOOOOHHH!!!

The ship's general alarm howled, a warning siren of pure, unfiltered terror.

Kapitän Hugo Brandt, normally a man of calm demeanor, was now pale as a ghost, his fingers digging into the railing.

"EVASIVE MANEUVERS—FULL SPEED AHEAD!"

The Barbarossa's engines roared to life, pushing the massive battleship forward, trying desperately to outrun the death approaching from the sky.

But speed wasn't enough.

The Gra Valkans still didn't understand that you cannot dodge a missile.

"ABANDON SHIP! ALL HIGH-RANKING OFFICERS TO EVACUATION BOATS!"

The order came down like a hammer blow, and the bridge erupted into chaos.

High-ranking naval officers shoved past one another, scrambling to reach the lifeboat deck, desperate to escape before the inevitable.

Several officers threw off their caps, no longer caring about decorum or rank.

All that mattered now was survival.

"MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!"

One lieutenant tripped on the metal grating—and was immediately shoved aside by a desperate admiral trying to push through.

The fear was absolute.

These were men who had spent their careers believing in Gra Valkan dominance—and now, in mere minutes, their mighty fleet was being reduced to burning wreckage by an enemy they couldn't even see.

Krieger, still standing on the command deck, watched his men flee.

His pride told him to stay.
His survival instinct told him to run.

He took one final look at the horizon, at the two streaks of fire descending toward them.

Then, he turned.

And ran for his life.

The sky burned behind them.

The mighty GVS Barbarossa, the pride of the Gra Valkan Imperial Navy, was now a doomed beast, its death throes playing out in fire and smoke.

Even as their lifeboats rowed desperately away, the fleeing officers couldn't tear their eyes away from the horror unfolding behind them.

They watched in horror as the first missile struck the Barbarossa's superstructure—its warhead detonating deep within the bridge tower, sending a shockwave of shattered steel and fire across the upper decks.

The entire front half of the bridge was instantly annihilated.

Kommodore Augustin Krieger, already halfway down the stairwell to the evacuation deck, heard the explosion behind him. He turned just in time to see a fireball erupting from where he had been standing just moments before.

Had he hesitated for even a second, he would have been vaporized with the bridge crew.

The second missile came moments later.

It ripped into the Barbarossa's lower hull, striking just below the main gun magazine—where thousands of rounds of high-caliber naval shells were stored.

For a split second, nothing happened.

Then—

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!

The entire center of the Barbarossa erupted, splitting the massive battleship in two.

From the evacuation boats, the watching officers recoiled in terror as a fireball hundreds of meters wide consumed the night sky, lighting up the ocean with an apocalyptic glow.

Then came the shockwave—a massive blast of wind and water that tore across the sea, nearly flipping over their lifeboats as they scrambled to get further away.

Their greatest warship, the unstoppable might of the Gra Valkan Empire, was now sinking in flames before their very eyes.

None of them had ever imagined this moment could exist.

For years, they had believed in their superiority—conquering weaker nations, annihilating entire fleets, treating the world as theirs to claim.

And now, here they were. Reduced to refugees on a lifeboat, forced to watch as everything they believed in was shattered in an instant.

They weren't the hunters anymore.

They were prey.

The air reeked of burning oil and death, the ocean choking on the wreckage of their once-mighty fleet.

Kapitän Hugo Brandt sat slumped against the wooden edge of the lifeboat, his face blank with shock.

"They're all dead..." he muttered, his voice hollow.

Korvettenkapitän Erich Falkenrath, sitting across from him, didn't reply. His eyes were still locked on the wreckage, his mind struggling to accept reality.

Kommodore Krieger, normally the pillar of unshakable authority, was gripping the side of the boat so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His breath came in shallow, erratic bursts.

"How?" he whispered. "How did this happen?"

The survivors didn't speak.

There was nothing left to say.

For the first time in their lives, they felt true fear.

Not the fear of an enemy's guns.

Not the fear of battle.

But the deep, primal fear of the unknown—of something far greater than themselves.

And that was when the ocean began to move.

It started as a deep rumbling beneath the waves.

At first, the officers thought it was debris shifting from the sinking wrecks.

Then they realized—the ocean itself was trembling.

Something was coming.

The surface of the water bulged, swelling outward like something massive was rising from the abyss below.

The lifeboats, already battered from the Barbarossa's explosion, rocked violently as the sea churned around them.

Then—

It emerged.

A monstrous, ancient form broke the surface, its colossal body rising like a mountain of shadow and scale.

The creature's skin was black and abyssal, glistening under the moonlight, its body so massive that the waves around it surged outward in a violent wake.

And then, its eyes opened.

Two massive, glowing orbs of pale blue light, burning with an otherworldly intelligence, locked onto the tiny, insignificant lifeboats below.

Krieger felt his breath freeze in his throat.

A creature beyond their comprehension—beyond anything their empire had ever faced—was now staring directly at them.

For the first time in his life, he understood what it meant to be powerless.

"R-ROW! ROW! GET AWAY FROM IT!"

The officers snapped out of their shock, desperately grabbing at the oars, rowing as fast as they could.

The lifeboats lurched forward, cutting through the water as panic set in.

But it was too late.

The Leviathan moved.

Its massive maw began to open, revealing rows upon rows of gleaming fangs, each one longer than a man's body.

The oarsmen screamed—pushing the boats faster—but the current was against them.

The beast inhaled.

A whirlpool formed beneath them, the lifeboats instantly dragged backward, as if the ocean itself was betraying them.

"NO! NO! ROW, DAMN YOU!"

The first boat tilted, its occupants losing balance, tumbling into the Leviathan's gaping maw.

And then—

CHOMP.

It bit down, crushing the wooden boat and everything inside it, swallowing the terrified officers as their final screams vanished into the abyss.

The second boat tried to veer away, but the Leviathan's tail moved like a tidal wave, its massive appendage crashing down on the water, creating a shockwave that capsized them instantly.

"GLUB—ACK!—"

Krieger hit the water hard, the impact forcing saltwater into his lungs. He thrashed wildly, his limbs screaming in pain as he fought against the whirlpool.

He saw Brandt disappear into the vortex—his outstretched hand vanishing beneath the waves, his scream cut short by the depths.

The last thing Krieger saw before he too was pulled under—

Was the Leviathan's glowing eyes.

Watching him.

Judging him.

And then—

Everything went black.

May 22, 1639 – Conshal Archipelago, Gra Valkan Encampment

The distant thunder of explosions had already begun to fade, but the smoke and fire still lingered on the horizon. The blackened sky above the sea glowed red, reflecting the inferno where the mightiest warships of the Gra Valkan Empire had once stood.

The remaining soldiers—the ones who had stayed behind at the landing zone—had heard it all.

The unmistakable roar of missiles cutting through the air, the thunderous impact of destruction, the sickening screams and panicked radio transmissions that suddenly went silent.

They had heard their leaders beg for orders, their brothers cry out in terror, and then... nothing.

And now, as they gathered along the coastline, they saw the truth with their own eyes.

Their fleet was gone.

The great iron beasts that had brought them here—the battleship, the destroyers, the landing ships—had all been reduced to flaming wreckage, their burning husks barely afloat amidst the blackened waves.

The sea itself seemed to mock them, its dark, rolling tide swallowing up the corpses of their comrades, dragging them down into the abyss below.

A heavy silence hung over the survivors.

Even the most battle-hardened men among them—veterans who had razed entire cities, who had watched nations burn—stood frozen, their minds failing to comprehend what had just happened.

This was supposed to be a simple mission.

A routine pacification campaign.

And now, they were stranded. Isolated. Cut off from the Motherland.

One of the younger soldiers, Gefreiter Lothar Weiss, gripped his rifle so hard his knuckles turned white.

"Wh... What the hell did this?" he whispered, his voice unsteady. "This... this isn't possible. Our fleet—our navy—how could it all just... disappear?"

Oberleutnant Dieter Hoch, an officer in his early forties, spat on the ground. His face twisted with rage, though his clenched jaw and twitching eye betrayed his fear.

"It wasn't the Yulkonians." His voice was cold, bitter. "Those savages don't have anything like this."

Weiss turned toward him, eyes desperate for an answer. "Then who? Who did this to us?!"

A low growl rose from the gathered men, their fear slowly hardening into something else.

Hatred.

Whoever had attacked them, whoever had dared to wipe their fleet from the seas, had humiliated the Gra Valkan Empire.

Someone had dared to challenge their supremacy—to crush them as if they were nothing.

They refused to accept it.

A heavy thud echoed across the clearing.

Stepping forward onto a makeshift wooden platform, Hauptmann Helmut Reinhardt, the highest-ranking officer left in command, faced his men.

He was a towering figure, his battle-worn uniform stained with dirt and blood, his gaze sharp as a dagger.

Even now, even after witnessing the impossible destruction of their fleet, his eyes burned with fury, not fear.

"We have been abandoned." His voice was deep, unwavering, filled with venom.

The men stood at attention, their faces twisted in anger.

"Our fleet is gone. Our commanders are dead. The Motherland will not send reinforcements. No one is coming for us. We are alone."

Murmurs rippled through the ranks—some of disbelief, others of rage.

"But hear me now," Reinhardt growled. "If the Motherland is to remember us, if Gra Valkas is to know of our fate, then we will make damn sure we carve our names into history before we fall!"

The murmurs grew into shouts, their despair slowly turning to something else—something darker.

"The Yulkonian rebels are still out there. They think they've won. They think they've broken us."

He let the words linger, his piercing gaze sweeping across the gathered soldiers.

"They are WRONG."

His voice boomed, cutting through the night like a blade.

"No matter the cost, even if there is no reinforcement!"

He lifted his fist into the air, his eyes blazing with fanaticism.

"We are Gra Valkan soldiers!"

The men clenched their weapons, their jaws tightening.

"And we will bring GLORY TO THE MOTHERLAND—WITH THE CORPSES OF THE YULKON REBELS IN OUR HANDS!"

A roar erupted from the ranks, a primal, guttural sound filled with nothing but pure hate.

They no longer feared death.

They no longer cared about survival.

They had nothing left to lose.

And so, they would become monsters.

They would hunt their enemies into the darkness.

They would slaughter every last Yulkonian they could find.

They would burn their bodies as an offering to the Motherland.

Because if this was their last night on earth, then by the time the sun rose—

The Conshal Archipelago would drown in blood.

The moonlight barely touched the jungle's edge, its thick canopy a black maw, swallowing all light and sound.

The Yulkonians were out there somewhere.

Watching.

Waiting.

But the Gra Valkans would not wait.

A cold wind swept through the landing zone, carrying the scent of smoke, salt, and death.

Hauptmann Reinhardt turned toward his second-in-command, Leutnant Erik Strauss, and spoke in a voice so calm it was terrifying.

"We move in fifteen minutes."

Strauss nodded. "We'll need torches. The jungle is too thick."

"Then we burn it down."

Strauss smirked. "A proper purge."

Reinhardt's lips curled into something that was not a smile.

"No survivors."

Strauss turned to the men. "You heard him! Arm yourselves and prepare to move! We hunt at midnight!"

As the Gra Valkan soldiers geared up for their final mission, they did not speak of their fallen fleet.

They did not pray for salvation.

They did not hope for rescue.

They only thought of one thing.

The kill.

Because in this world, if they were not the hunters—

Then they were the prey.

And they refused to die like prey.

1:30 AM, May 23, 1639 – Deep Within the Conshal Jungle

The jungle whispered with life, its nocturnal chorus weaving through the dense foliage like an unbroken hymn. The scent of damp earth and moss filled the air, mingling with the bitter sting of blood. The Yulkonian resistance had found refuge here—hidden beneath the embrace of ancient trees, where the shadows clung to them like a second skin.

They had survived.

But only barely.

The clearing where they had set up their makeshift camp was a graveyard of exhaustion. Groans of pain and hushed voices filled the humid air, punctuated by the crackling of a weak fire that barely cast enough light to see. The resistance fighters were scattered across the forest floor, some clutching wounds, others tending to the injured with whatever little supplies they had left.

Lilliana, the young elf girl who had nearly been taken by the Gra Valkans, sat against the gnarled roots of a towering tree, her body trembling. A thick bandage wrapped around her arm, hastily applied, already stained red. Her hands were shaking, her breath uneven, as she stared at nothing in particular.

She had never seen so much death before.

The sounds of the attack were still fresh in her ears—the sudden explosion of gunfire, the heavy boots crushing the forest floor, the Gra Valkans' laughter, their hands tearing at her.

And then the gunshots. The ambush. The screams.

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the memories away, but they refused to leave her.

A soft voice pulled her back to the present.

"Breathe."

She looked up to see Arden, the grizzled leader of their cell, crouching beside her. His face was gaunt, streaked with grime and exhaustion, but his eyes were sharp, focused.

"You're still here," he murmured. "That means you won."

Lilliana's lips trembled. "I don't feel like I won anything."

Arden let out a tired chuckle, brushing a hand through his unkempt dark hair. "None of us do. But we did."

His gaze flickered toward the others—the scattered remnants of their group, tending to one another like wounded animals.

They had lost too many today.

But they had struck back.

And that meant something.

Across the clearing, Naomi, the group's medic, was frantically working.

"Hold still," she snapped, pressing a wad of moss against Jorel's side, where a Gra Valkan bullet had torn through him earlier that night.

Jorel hissed in pain, gripping his own thigh to keep himself from thrashing. "You're supposed to be gentle, dammit!"

Naomi didn't bother responding—she was too busy wrapping makeshift cloth bandages around the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. Their supplies were gone, and all she had left was jungle remedies and desperation.

"You're lucky it went through," she muttered. "Otherwise, I'd have to dig it out."

Jorel gritted his teeth, his forehead beaded with sweat. "Yeah, great. Real lucky."

Despite the pain, his eyes darted toward the treeline, his voice lowering.

"They're coming back for us, aren't they?"

Naomi paused for a moment, her fingers trembling slightly. Then she forced her hands to keep working.

"Of course they are."

Jorel exhaled sharply. "I figured."

A few feet away, Maren, the group's scout, sat with his back against a fallen log, methodically reloading his bolt-action rifle. His hands moved automatically, despite the bandages wrapped around his left wrist.

He didn't look up as he spoke.

"They lost their fleet," he said, voice flat. "They've got nothing left but their boots and their bullets."

Lilliana shuddered. "That's what makes them more dangerous."

Maren's hands stilled. He finally looked up, his dark brown eyes grim.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "It does."

The fire had burned low, casting dancing shadows against the jungle walls. The air was thick with the scent of mud and sweat, and the night carried with it an uneasy stillness.

Even the insects, which had once chirped relentlessly, had gone silent.

Something about that made Arden uneasy.

He had spent his entire life in the jungle, learning its secrets, its moods. He knew how to listen to the way the wind shifted, how to recognize the patterns of movement in the trees.

And right now—something was off.

His fingers instinctively tightened around the handle of his dagger, his gaze scanning the treeline.

Beside him, Maren noticed the shift in his posture and tensed.

"You feel it too?"

Arden gave a slight nod. "Yeah."

A cold gust of wind swept through the clearing, rustling the leaves, but the forest itself remained unnaturally still.

It was like the jungle was holding its breath.

Lilliana rubbed at her arms, a shiver running down her spine.

"Something's out there."

Naomi swallowed. "The Gra Valkans?"

No one answered.

2:13 AM, May 23, 1639 – Deep in the Conshal Jungle

The jungle was no longer silent.

A single gunshot ripped through the night, shattering the fragile peace that had settled over the Yulkon resistance's camp. The snap of a rifle echoed between the trees, followed by the unmistakable wet gasp of someone choking on their own blood.

Then—chaos.

Shouts in Gra Valkan rang through the jungle. Boots thundered through the underbrush, rifles cracked, and screams filled the air. The darkness itself seemed to explode with gunfire, as muzzle flashes flickered like lightning among the trees.

Elza barely had time to react before someone slammed into her from behind, throwing her to the ground. The sharp impact knocked the wind from her lungs, and her ears rang from the sheer force of the explosion that followed—a Gra Valkan grenade detonating where she had stood just seconds ago.

"RUN!" Arden's voice bellowed through the chaos. "SCATTER!"

She coughed, her vision swimming, but there was no time to recover. The Gra Valkans were pouring into the camp like wolves—figures in dark uniforms, their rifles raised, expressions twisted with murderous intent.

Elza scrambled to her feet, grabbing at her fallen rifle, but before she could lift it—

A boot crashed against her ribs, sending her sprawling again.

Pain exploded through her side, but she barely had time to register it before a Gra Valkan soldier loomed over her, his rifle pointed directly at her face.

"Rebel scum," he spat.

She threw herself sideways, just as the rifle barked—dirt and shredded leaves exploded beside her head. Her fingers dug into the soil, pushing herself up, her heart hammering.

Her eyes locked onto Arden, who was already dragging Naomi to her feet, shoving her toward the trees. "MOVE! GET INTO THE BRUSH!"

Elza didn't hesitate. She turned and ran, her breath burning in her throat.

Gunfire blazed behind them.

Elza could hear bullets ripping through the leaves, snapping branches, and cutting down those who weren't fast enough.

Jorel let out a strangled cry as a round struck his leg, sending him tumbling forward. He clutched at his wound, struggling, but before Elza could reach him, a Gra Valkan pounced on him.

"NO!"

She turned—raised her rifle—

But it was too late.

The Gra Valkan stabbed downward with a bayonet, burying it into Jorel's chest. A wet gurgle left his lips as he convulsed, blood pooling beneath him, before the soldier wrenched the blade free.

Elza's stomach twisted. Her hands shook on her rifle.

That was when a voice barked behind her.

"Keep running!"

She turned to see Arden shoving her forward, his own rifle snapping up to fire. The Gra Valkan soldier's head snapped backward, blood misting in the air as Arden's bullet found its mark.

"GO, ELZA!"

She forced her legs to move, even though all she wanted was to fight.

But fighting wasn't an option. Not against this.

Not against them.

The Yulkonian resistance had been outnumbered before, but never like this.

Hauptmann Helmut Reinhardt advanced through the jungle like a machine, his boots crunching through leaves as he fired his Luger pistol with terrifying precision.

A Yulkon fighter tried to reload, his hands fumbling in the dark, but before he could get a fresh magazine in—

Bang.

Reinhardt's shot punched through his throat.

He watched without flinching as the man dropped to his knees, gurgling, clawing at his own ruined neck.

"Pathetic," Reinhardt muttered, stepping over the dying man.

Behind him, Leutnant Erik Strauss was grinning, his rifle braced against his shoulder as he fired into the darkness. "We should've done this from the start," he sneered. "All that talk about capturing prisoners—waste of time."

Another gunshot, another body collapsed into the dirt.

The Yulkon rebels were scattering like insects, their resistance already broken.

"Push them deeper into the jungle!" Reinhardt ordered, his voice cold and methodical. "No mercy!"

The Gra Valkans roared in agreement, their hatred boiling over.

One by one, the Yulkonians fell.

Elza didn't know how far she had run.

Her legs ached, her lungs burned, but the gunfire never stopped. It was as if the Gra Valkans were always right behind her, relentless and merciless.

Somewhere behind her, she heard Naomi cry out—a sound of pain.

Elza turned, heart lurching, but before she could go back, she saw Arden dragging Naomi behind cover, his expression grim.

"She's hit!" Arden called. "We need to split up—NOW!"

Maren emerged from the shadows, rifle slung over his shoulder, his breathing heavy. "We can't stay together! They're tracking us too easily!"

Elza's mind raced.

She didn't want to leave them behind.

But if they stayed together, they would all die.

Arden read her expression.

"We'll find each other later," he said, gripping Naomi tighter. "Just survive."

Elza clenched her fists. She wanted to fight. She wanted to stay.

But she knew Arden was right.

She turned and ran.

One last look over her shoulder—one last glimpse of her friends disappearing into the jungle.

Then the trees swallowed her whole.

Behind her, the Gra Valkans were still hunting.

Reinhardt watched as the last stragglers vanished into the depths of the jungle. His pistol was warm in his hand, his uniform damp with sweat.

"Should we pursue?" Strauss asked, licking his lips. His eyes gleamed with the thrill of the hunt.

Reinhardt thought for a moment.

Then, he shook his head. "No. Let them run."

Strauss looked disappointed. "Cowards."

Reinhardt exhaled slowly, watching as smoke from their gunfire still lingered in the air.

"This isn't over."

The night was far from over.

And when the sun rose, there would be nowhere left to hide.

The stench of blood lingered in the damp night air. Smoke from burning supplies curled into the jungle canopy, mixing with the iron tang of death. Bodies lay sprawled in the mud—some twitching, some still.

The wounded Yulkonians, the ones too slow to escape, had been dragged into the clearing.

They knelt in the dirt, some clutching wounds that oozed dark red into the soil, others trembling with wide, fearful eyes. Among them was Naomi, her shoulder dark with her own blood, and Jarel, whose leg had been shredded by a bullet.

The Gra Valkan soldiers stood over them, rifles lowered but ready. The muzzle flashes of their earlier slaughter had left their faces smeared with soot, their eyes gleaming with a mix of adrenaline and cruelty.

Hauptmann Helmut Reinhardt stepped forward, his boots crushing the wet earth beneath him. His pistol gleamed under the moonlight.

He studied the kneeling prisoners, his expression unreadable. Then, with the ease of someone ordering a drink, he gave the command.

"Execute them."

For a moment, silence.

Then—

CRACK.

The first bullet slammed into a prisoner's skull, snapping his head backward as his body crumpled.

Naomi screamed, her eyes wide with horror.

Another shot.

Jarel jerked violently, a wet gasp escaping his lips before he collapsed into the dirt, motionless.

One by one, the Gra Valkans fired, each gunshot a merciless punctuation to life.

Some of the wounded tried to crawl away, leaving dark trails in the mud. They were shot down with cold efficiency, their bodies left to twitch and spasm until stillness took them.

Reinhardt watched without emotion. To him, this wasn't war. This was pest control.

Behind him, Leutnant Erik Strauss chuckled, exhaling slowly as he lowered his rifle. "I almost feel bad for them."

Reinhardt shot him a sideways glance. "Do you?"

Strauss grinned, nudging a corpse with his boot. "No. But you have to admit, it's amusing. They actually thought they could win."

A final shot rang out. The last Yulkon prisoner slumped forward, their blood pooling beneath them.

The jungle swallowed the silence.

Hauptmann Reinhardt holstered his pistol, his gaze shifting toward the jungle.

"They're still out there," he said, his voice low and sharp.

Strauss wiped the sweat from his forehead, his grin never fading. "Then let's finish what we started."

The remaining Gra Valkan soldiers stood at attention, their weapons raised, their expressions filled with bloodlust.

"No matter the cost," Reinhardt continued, stepping forward, "even without reinforcements... we are Gra Valkan."

The soldiers roared in fierce agreement.

"We will bring glory to the Motherland with the corpses of these rebels in our hands!"

With that, the Gra Valkans marched forward, their boots crushing the blood-soaked earth beneath them.

3:05 AM, May 23, 1639 – Deep Within the Jungle

Elza's breath came in ragged gasps as she stumbled through the undergrowth, her boots slipping on the damp jungle floor. The muffled sounds of gunfire and screams still echoed in her ears, even as the jungle grew quieter. The others were dead.

She clutched her rifle tightly against her chest, her fingers trembling. Sweat dripped down her forehead, mingling with the dirt and blood smeared across her face. Jarel. Naomi. The others. She had seen them fall. She had seen the Gra Valkans execute them like animals.

And she had run.

Not out of cowardice—out of necessity.

"Keep moving. Keep moving."

The words played over and over in her mind like a chant, a fragile thread keeping her sanity intact.

Around her, the jungle pulsed with life. The chirping of insects, the distant calls of nocturnal creatures—it was as if the trees themselves whispered to one another, indifferent to the slaughter that had just taken place.

She wiped her face, smearing more grime across her cheek, and glanced over her shoulder. The Gra Valkans were out there, hunting them. And if they caught her, she knew exactly what would happen.

She pushed forward, ducking under low-hanging vines, ignoring the sharp pain of thorns slicing into her arms.

Somewhere ahead, she heard movement.

Her breath hitched. She froze, her hands tightening around her rifle.

Then—

"Elza..."

The whisper was faint, barely cutting through the rustling leaves, but she knew that voice.

She spun around, heart hammering, and found Mikhael crouched behind a fallen tree. His leg was wrapped in a blood-soaked cloth, his face pale and slick with sweat. Even in the dim light, she could see the pain in his eyes.

He had been shot.

Elza rushed to his side, careful to keep her steps quiet. The jungle around them was still, but she knew that wouldn't last.

"Mikhael... you're alive?" Her voice barely rose above a breath.

His teeth clenched as he exhaled shakily. "Barely. But we need... to move."

She nodded, draping his arm over her shoulder and helping him up. His weight pressed heavily against her, his breath ragged as they staggered forward. Every step was a struggle, his boots dragging against the damp soil.

Elza didn't want to admit it, but she knew the truth.

He wasn't going to make it.

The night pressed in around them, thick with humidity and the scent of earth and blood. Somewhere in the distance, the unnatural snap of a twig echoed through the undergrowth. Then another. The rustling of leaves. Heavy boots against wet ground.

They were coming.

Mikhael tensed, his grip on her arm tightening. "I hear them," he murmured.

Elza heard them too. The Gra Valkans were closing in. Hunting them.

Her mind raced, calculating their chances. They wouldn't outrun them, not like this. Not with Mikhael slowing them down.

He must have realized it too. His hand clenched around her sleeve, forcing her to stop. When she turned to face him, his eyes were steady.

"Elza," he said, quiet but firm. "You have to leave me."

She recoiled, shaking her head. "No! We can still—"

"You know we can't," he interrupted, his voice low but resolute. "They'll catch us both."

Her throat tightened. She wanted to argue, to find some way to save him. But the reality was merciless.

Mikhael shifted against the tree, adjusting his grip on his rifle with trembling fingers. He checked the magazine, jaw tightening as he took a slow breath.

"I'll buy you time," he said.

Elza felt her chest constrict. "That's suicide."

A weak chuckle escaped him. "I was dead the moment they shot me."

Tears burned at the edges of her vision, but she forced them down. There was no time for grief.

She reached out, gripping his shoulder tightly. "Make them pay."

Mikhael smirked through the pain. "I intend to."

Then she ran.

She didn't look back. The jungle swallowed her whole, branches clawing at her as she forced her way through the dense foliage. The darkness around her felt suffocating, but she didn't stop. She couldn't.

Then, behind her—

The first gunshot rang out.

Then another. And another.

Mikhael was fighting.

But she didn't turn back.

Instead, she focused on the only thing left. Surviving.

Elza's body ached. Every breath she took sent pain through her ribs, a reminder of the night's brutal chase. Her legs, sore from running, twitched involuntarily as she lay curled beneath the twisted roots of an ancient tree.

Morning of May 23, 1639

Morning sunlight filtered through the dense jungle canopy, painting golden streaks across the damp earth. The air smelled of moss and wet leaves, a stark contrast to the stench of gunpowder and blood that had filled the night. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, there was silence—no gunfire, no screams, just the rustling of leaves in the soft breeze.

She had made it.

Elza slowly sat up, wincing as her muscles protested. Her uniform was damp with sweat and dirt, torn in places where she had scraped against branches in the frantic escape. A dull throb pounded in her skull, but she ignored it. Compared to the others—the ones who hadn't made it—she was lucky.

The forest around her seemed untouched by the horrors of war. Birds chirped overhead, oblivious to the massacre that had taken place only hours ago. A gentle mist clung to the undergrowth, carrying the scent of morning dew.

For a moment, she allowed herself to breathe, to feel the warmth of the sun on her face. She had survived. That was all that mattered.

But reality soon crept back in.

Her hands curled into fists. She could still hear their voices—Gra Valkan soldiers barking orders, their cold laughter as they executed the wounded. She could still see their faces, twisted with hatred, as they gunned down her comrades without hesitation.

A lump formed in her throat.

Where was everyone? Were any of them still alive?

She clenched her teeth, forcing the thought away. She couldn't afford to break now. Not yet.

Shifting her weight, she reached into her tattered satchel, fingers brushing against a half-empty canteen. She unscrewed the lid and took a careful sip, savoring the coolness of the water as it ran down her dry throat.

She had to find the others.

Pushing herself to her feet, she steadied her breathing and looked toward the thick jungle beyond. The calm of the morning was deceptive—she knew the storm wasn't over.

Somewhere out there, the Gra Valkans were still hunting them.

And she had no choice but to keep moving.

Elza pushed through the undergrowth, careful to keep her footsteps light. Every rustling leaf, every snapped twig sent her heart pounding in her chest. She needed to find a way out—somewhere safe, somewhere the Gra Valkans wouldn't find her.

But deep down, she knew the truth. There was no safe place. Not anymore.

The jungle stretched endlessly before her, dense and suffocating. Vines curled around towering trees, their thick roots rising like skeletal hands from the earth. The humid air clung to her skin, making every breath feel heavier. Somewhere in the distance, the faint trickle of a stream whispered through the foliage. If she could reach it, maybe she could follow it to higher ground—maybe even find the others.

Her fingers tightened around the grip of her pistol. She had one shot left. One chance.

Then, movement.

She froze.

A figure emerged from between the trees—a Gra Valkan soldier, clad in dark gray fatigues. His rifle was slung lazily over his shoulder, his expression bored, as if he had been searching for hours with no results. But the moment his cold eyes locked onto hers, everything changed.

For a split second, neither of them moved.

Elza's breath caught in her throat. Her grip on the pistol tightened.

She had no time to think—only to act. She pulled the weapon up and squeezed the trigger.

Click.

Her stomach twisted.

"No."

She pulled the trigger again.

Click. Click.

"No!"

The Gra Valkan soldier's eyes flicked between her and the useless weapon in her hands. His confusion shifted into something far worse—realization.

Then his mouth opened.

"HIER! HIER DRÜBEN!"

His voice cut through the jungle like a bullet.

Elza's breath hitched.

Branches cracked in the distance. Metal clanked against gear. Voices barked in Gra Valkan.

They were coming.

Panic surged through her, but she couldn't afford to freeze. Not now.

She bolted.

Leaves lashed at her skin as she tore through the jungle, her heartbeat a thunderous drum in her ears. She didn't know where she was going—just away. Away from them. Away from certain death.

Behind her, the sounds of pursuit grew louder. Boots hammered the ground, branches snapped, and guttural voices barked orders.

"Schnappt sie euch!"

"Zerschneiden! Treibt sie in die Enge!"

They weren't just chasing her.

They were hunting her.

Elza pushed herself harder, lungs burning, legs screaming. But she couldn't stop.

Not now. Not ever.

She had to survive.

Elza's lungs burned, her legs screaming for mercy as she crashed through the undergrowth. She could hear them—too close. The pounding boots, the snarling voices, the snapping branches as they carved a relentless path through the jungle behind her.

She couldn't outrun them forever.

She leaped over a fallen log, barely catching herself as her footing slipped on damp moss. The jungle air was thick, clinging to her skin like a second layer. Every breath felt heavier, more ragged, but she refused to stop.

Then—

An opening.

The trees suddenly thinned, the thick jungle parting to reveal a break in the terrain. For a fraction of a second, relief surged through her.

Until she saw what lay ahead.

A cliff.

Her feet skidded against loose dirt, barely stopping before the edge. Below, another stretch of dense forest loomed, its canopy an unforgiving sea of green. The drop wasn't sheer—it sloped sharply down before breaking off into jagged rock and tangled roots. A fall here wouldn't kill her instantly, but it would leave her broken. Helpless.

Trapped.

Elza turned, chest heaving, sweat stinging her eyes.

And there they were.

The Gra Valkan soldiers stepped forward from the treeline like wolves closing in on wounded prey. Their faces twisted into amused sneers, their weapons lowered—but not out of reach.

One of them took a slow step forward, tilting his head.

Then, in accented but chillingly clear Yulkonian, he spoke:

"You gave us quite the chase."

Elza's fingers tightened around the hilt of her knife, the cold steel a weak comfort against the terror clawing at her chest. She held it up in a defensive stance, her breath ragged but steady, refusing to let them see her fear.

The Gra Valkan soldiers chuckled at the sight. Amusement. As if she were a child foolishly baring its fangs at a beast that had already decided its fate.

One of them, a tall officer with sharp eyes and an arrogant smirk, stepped forward, arms folded behind his back. His uniform was still crisp despite the jungle's humidity, a stark contrast to Elza's dirtied and torn clothes.

Then, in a voice laced with mock curiosity, he mused,

"Aren't you... the princess of Yulkon?"

The words hit her like a slap. Her grip on the knife tightened, her stance unshaken, but inside, her pulse quickened.

They knew.

The soldiers exchanged glances, their smirks widening. This was no longer just about capturing an enemy. This was a prize.

The officer took another step forward, his eyes glinting with something vile.

"You are valuable, girl. Our men will be pleased to have such an important little savage in our hands." His voice darkened, mocking, cruel. "Perhaps you should beg for your life. Or better yet—strip. Satisfy our people. Maybe then, we'll grant you mercy."

The other soldiers grinned, some laughing under their breath. The air was thick with anticipation, with sick amusement.

But Elza didn't move.

She locked eyes with the officer, her expression a mask of pure hatred.

Not fear. Hatred.

Even as exhaustion weighed on her, even as her body screamed for rest, she refused.

The smirk on the officer's face faltered for just a second before twisting into something darker.

Slowly, deliberately, he pulled out his pistol and aimed it at her head.

"Fine. Have it your way."

The moment stretched, suffocating in its weight.

Elza stood her ground, her pulse hammering against her ribs, her blade still raised as the Gra Valkan officer kept his pistol trained on her.

Then—

Whup-whup-whup-whup—

A deep, unnatural thumping sound tore through the jungle air.

The officer's smirk vanished. His brow furrowed as he tilted his head, confusion flashing across his face.

The soldiers stirred. Some turned their heads toward the sky, others reached for their rifles, their instinct whispering that something was very, very wrong.

Elza felt it before she saw it—a gust of wind, a tremor in the air. Then, behind her, rising like a phantom from the abyss beyond the cliff—

A hulking, gray-green beast with a glass nose and spinning blades of death.

An aircraft.

But not one she had ever seen before.

It hovered with a terrible grace, its presence drowning out every other sound. The Gra Valkans stood frozen, staring, wide-eyed.

"Was ist das...?" one soldier breathed, his voice barely a whisper.

Even their officer, who had moments ago played the executioner, now looked up, his fingers stiff on the trigger. His eyes darted from the aircraft to his men, then back again.

The machine was painted in dark camouflage, something alien, something monstrous. Its side door was open, revealing shadowed figures inside—men gripping a weapon mounted on its side.

Then—

A harsh, unfamiliar voice boomed from within the machine.

"Atenção, forças hostis!"

The words cut through the air like a warning bell—a language unknown to them. The Gra Valkans stiffened, their grips tightening on their weapons.

The officer, still holding his pistol aimed at Elza, furrowed his brows. "What the hell did they just say?"

Another voice, this one calm, composed—deadly.

"Limpem a área. Abram fogo."

Before the Gra Valkans could react, before the officer could even issue a command—

BRRRTTTT!

The mounted machine gun roared to life.

Elza's world exploded.

The air was shredded by streaking bullets. A spray of blood and flesh filled her vision as the Gra Valkans closest to her were torn apart.

The officer's body jerked violently, his head snapping back as his chest erupted in a spray of red. His gun flew from his grasp, clattering against the rocks as he collapsed lifelessly to the ground.

The soldiers scrambled, some diving for cover, others attempting to raise their rifles—but it was too late.

The chopper tilted slightly, adjusting its aim. The next burst of fire swept across the battlefield, cutting them down like wheat before the scythe.

Elza could only stand there, her knife still clenched in her trembling fingers, her eyes wide, her breath stolen from her lungs.

What... is happening?

One Gra Valkan managed to take cover behind a tree, shouldering his rifle. His face was twisted in rage, in desperation. He let out a furious battle cry and fired a burst toward the airborne predator—

The aircraft barely flinched.

Instead, a side hatch opened—another soldier, another weapon.

A quick, controlled burst of gunfire.

The Gra Valkan's head snapped back—his body crumpling to the dirt like a broken puppet.

The jungle fell silent.

It was over.

Elza still couldn't breathe.

Her ears rang. Her body trembled, her mind unable to catch up.

The monstrous machine hovered, its side door still open, its pilots unseen but watching.

Then, a voice—firm, steady, commanding.

"Área segura. Baixem altitude. Preparem-se para extração."

Elza barely understood a word.

But one thing was clear.

Whoever these people were... they were not Gra Valkan.

Elza's knees buckled.

Her breath came in ragged gasps, her body trembling uncontrollably. The sheer brutality of what had just happened—the one-sided slaughter, the thunder of machine gun fire, the Gra Valkans' screams as they were torn apart— it overwhelmed her.

Her knife slipped from her fingers, clattering onto the rocky ground. She barely registered it. Her vision blurred, her mind struggling to comprehend.

What... just happened?

Before her, the hulking metal beast loomed, its massive rotor sending fierce winds through the trees, kicking up dirt and debris. The side door remained open, figures inside still scanning the area, weapons poised.

Then—movement.

A man in a camouflage uniform stepped forward, his rifle steady, his face unreadable behind dark-tinted goggles.

Elza flinched.

For a moment—just a moment—her instincts screamed at her to run. Another soldier. Another invader. Another monster.

But then she saw the patches on his uniform.

It wasn't Gra Valkan.

It wasn't anything she had ever seen before.

And behind him, more of them. Moving with practiced precision, sweeping through the jungle like predators.

More shadows descended from the hovering Brazilian EC725, boots hitting the ground in smooth, disciplined motions. They moved in teams, some spreading out to secure the area, others moving directly into the jungle.

Elza just knelt there, her breath caught in her throat.

Her mind screamed at her to do something—say something.

But the words wouldn't come.

Then—

Another sound.

More helicopters.

A rhythmic, distant thumping in the air, growing louder.

Elza weakly lifted her gaze, looking past the trees, past the ridge.

They were coming.

More rotary-winged beasts, each marked with different insignias. Some bore red and white, others blue and white stripes, their bodies painted in tactical camouflage.

Their numbers multiplied—Chile, Peru.

It was an onslaught of foreign power descending upon the island.

The Gra Valkans were finished.

And Elza?

Elza barely registered the firm hands that gripped her arms.

She flinched, instinctively recoiling—but there was no force, no cruelty in the touch. Instead, it was steady, guiding, as if trying to reassure her.

A man in a dark green camouflage uniform crouched beside her. His face obscured by goggles and a tactical mask, but his posture—it wasn't hostile.

He spoke.

A deep, unfamiliar voice, laced with an accent she had never heard before. The words were completely alien.

"Você está ferida?"

Elza's lips parted, her breath shallow.

She didn't understand.

More figures moved around her—Peruvian and Chilean soldiers, fanning out, weapons raised, covering the jungle. The Brazilian who knelt beside her glanced over his shoulder, calling something into a radio.

"Temos uma sobrevivente. Parece estar em choque."

Elza blinked rapidly, her mind spinning.

The Brazilian turned back to her, then carefully reached into his vest.

She tensed—but instead of a weapon, he pulled out a small canteen.

He unscrewed the cap, then offered it to her.

Elza just stared at it.

A soldier... offering her water?

It made no sense.

The past days had been nothing but blood, nothing but terror. The Gra Valkans had come with fire and steel, but these people—they were different.

Hesitant, her fingers brushed against the canteen. The man gave a small nod, encouraging her.

Elza lifted it to her lips and took a shaky sip.

The cool water slid down her throat, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, she realized—

She was still alive.

And whoever these people were...

They had just saved her life.

Inside forest

The jungle was filled with the sound of gunfire and dying screams.

The Gra Valkans, the once-mighty imperial warriors, were now nothing more than prey—hunted down like animals.

They ran. Tripping over roots, crashing through the underbrush, scrambling over rocks—running, running, running.

But it didn't matter.

The green-clad soldiers were relentless. Ghosts in the trees. Shadows in the dark.

One Gra Valkan soldier, bloodied and shaking, threw down his rifle and raised his hands.

"I SURRENDER!" he shouted, his voice cracking with fear. "I SURRENDER!"

A Chilean soldier stood over him, rifle aimed straight at his forehead.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then, the Chilean tilted his head, as if considering.

"A Convenção de Genebra não funciona para bastardos como você."

The Gra Valkan's eyes widened in horror.

"W-Wait!"

BANG.

His body collapsed backward, a fresh hole in his skull.

More Gra Valkans fell. Shot in the back, shot in the chest, shot in the head—no mercy, no hesitation.

Those who begged, those who fought, those who tried to crawl away—it didn't matter.

Not a single one would leave this jungle alive.

The South American forces moved like executioners, checking bodies, ensuring that any Gra Valkan still breathing was put down immediately.

One Brazilian soldier stepped over a wounded Gra Valkan, his boots crushing a pool of blood beneath him. The dying man gasped, reaching up weakly—pleading.

The soldier didn't care.

He raised his pistol.

"Boa noite, filho da puta."

BANG.

The jungle fell silent.

No more screaming. No more running.

The Empire's finest were nothing more than corpses rotting in the dirt.

Landing site

The air was thick with the stench of blood and gunpowder. The jungle, once alive with the sounds of nature, was now eerily silent, disturbed only by the occasional crackling of flames from the smoldering remains of the Gra Valkan corpses.

Elza stood there, motionless, her body trembling from exhaustion and shock. She had fought. She had endured. She had survived. But as she looked at the lifeless bodies of her people and the invaders alike, a painful truth settled deep in her chest.

This wasn't a victory.

This was survival.

A Brazilian soldier approached, his rifle slung over his shoulder, offering her a hand. His words were foreign, but his eyes—his eyes were human. They were not filled with cruelty, nor arrogance, nor the sick pleasure the Gra Valkans had when they looked at her.

He was offering her safety.

Elza took a shaky breath and reached out, gripping his hand.

The Yulkon survivors—the few who had made it—were being gathered. Some were wounded, some barely conscious, all of them forever changed. They were helped onto the helicopters by the Chilean and Peruvian forces, their movements efficient yet careful, as if handling something fragile.

Elza followed in a daze, stepping onto the metal ramp of the Brazilian EC725. The moment she set foot inside, her legs buckled beneath her.

Her knees hit the cold floor.

And then, she broke.

Tears, hot and unstoppable, poured down her face. She gritted her teeth, trying to contain it, trying to be strong. She had survived. She should be grateful.

But the weight of everything—the deaths, the fear, the torment, the sheer hopelessness she had felt just hours ago—it all crashed down at once.

A Peruvian soldier kneeled beside her, offering a ration pack of food. She took it, her hands shaking violently as she unwrapped it and took a bite.

It was the first kindness she had received in what felt like a lifetime.

The helicopter engines roared to life.

The ground trembled as several helicopters lifted off at once, their rotors slicing through the jungle air. Elza felt the pull of gravity as the aircraft rose higher, carrying her away from the nightmare below.

She turned her head, staring out of the open side door.

Below her, the battlefield stretched out in all its horrifying finality.

Bodies littered the jungle floor, sprawled out in pools of their own blood. The Gra Valkan weapons lay abandoned beside them, their steel as cold and lifeless as their owners. Smoke drifted lazily from bullet-ridden trees and crushed foliage, remnants of the short yet brutal conflict.

She could see the ruins of her home, the once-hidden Yulkon camps now destroyed, consumed by fire and war.

It was over.

The Gra Valkans were dead.

Their empire had reached its hand too far, too greedily. And today, that hand had been severed.

She turned away, her body exhausted but her heart lighter than it had been in weeks.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity—

Elza allowed herself to hope.

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Yeah, 2 weeks more for upcoming chapters. if this chapter reached 30 votes 😎

Also a meme from this chapter 💩