Maverick raised his hand in a swift, decisive motion. "Disa, shoot!"
"Roger!" Disa whispered back, steadying her aim. A sharp crack rang through the air as her bullet struck true. The first guard slumped to the ground without a sound.
"Elan, shoot!" Maverick ordered next.
"Roger!" Elan replied. He fired a single, clean shot. The second guard, stationed on the opposite side of the tower, dropped instantly.
From his perch above, a lookout on the tower noticed the two lifeless bodies below. Alarmed, he scanned the area, eyes darting frantically for the source of the shots.
"Lira, shoot!" Maverick commanded before the sentry could react.
Lira didn't hesitate. Her shot echoed, and the lookout collapsed over the tower rail, his weapon clattering uselessly beside him.
Maverick surveyed the now-silent tower and called out to the team, "The gate is clear. A supply van is on its way. This is our chance. When the gate opens, board the van. Take down any guards or soldiers you encounter inside. Be quick, be precise."
The recruits took position, hearts pounding as they waited in tense silence.
Minutes later, headlights pierced the foggy dusk as a pair of supply vans rolled toward the compound entrance. The heavy gates creaked open, and Maverick gave the signal.
"Move!"
The team surged forward, sprinting through the opening. They reached the van just as it slowed near the checkpoint. Gunfire erupted as they climbed aboard, taking the guards by surprise. One by one, the enemy soldiers fell under the coordinated barrage.
In the chaos, Sheath slipped and tumbled off the back of the moving van. With a grunt, he scrambled back to his feet and leapt back on board just in time. He picked up one of the fallen guards' rifles, inspecting it with quick, practiced hands.
"These weapons…" he muttered, eyes widening. "They're far more advanced than ours."
Maverick took a glance at the sleek design and high-caliber components. "Impressive, yes. But they're noisy. We're trained for stealth, not a full-on war. Take what you can carry, but don't rely on them."
With the guards down and the van under their control, Maverick motioned for the others to disembark and regroup behind the walls. They moved swiftly, disappearing into the shadows of the compound.
Suddenly, Maverick's sharp eyes caught movement ahead—more soldiers approaching, likely drawn by the distant gunfire.
"Hold!" he ordered quietly. "Those aren't our targets. Aim for their limbs—disable, don't kill."
The recruits adjusted their stances. The sound of boots hitting the dirt grew louder, closer. As the soldiers rounded the corner, Maverick's team sprang into action.
Shots cracked through the air—measured, precise. Each bullet found a leg or an arm. The enemy collapsed in surprise and pain, unable to fight back effectively. Before they could call for backup, the recruits swarmed in, securing weapons and binding the soldiers with fastened straps and zip ties.
The operation was smooth, controlled, and ruthless in its efficiency.
Maverick stepped forward, checking the captives. "They'll be useful. Intel, maybe even leverage."
Sheath nodded, gripping one of the confiscated rifles. "Still think these are too loud?"
Maverick smirked faintly. "Only if you miss."
The team regrouped, adrenaline still running hot through their veins. The mission had only just begun, but they'd made their first move—and done it well.
"Keep moving," Maverick instructed. "We're not done yet. From this point on, silence is our ally. No more mistakes."
Weapons checked. Routes memorized. Every recruit knew what was at stake. They slipped into the shadows once more, the night stretching ahead, dangerous and uncertain—but full of opportunity.
Kliner turned to Armin, concern etched across his face. "What if Sheath falls into danger?"
Armin remained calm, his gaze steady. "That's exactly why I sent him. If he's pushed to the edge, he might awaken his true powers."
Kliner frowned. "And if he doesn't?"
"I have contingencies," Armin said simply.
Kliner pressed on. "What kind of plan are we talking about?"
Armin tilted his head slightly, then asked, "How old is he now?"
"Fifteen," Kliner replied without hesitation.
"I was thirteen when I first awakened," Armin said, his voice quiet but firm.
Kliner folded his arms. "That doesn't mean he's ready. We don't even know if he can do it."
Armin's eyes narrowed. "He can. The potential is there—it just needs the right trigger."
"And if the trigger breaks him instead of waking him?" Kliner asked.
"It won't," Armin said with conviction. "Because if it comes down to it, we'll force the awakening."
Kliner's expression hardened. "That's a dangerous path."
Armin nodded. "So is the war we're in. We don't have the luxury of waiting for fate to be kind. Sheath has power—we just have to make sure he finds it before it's too late."
The two stood in silence for a moment, the weight of their choices hanging heavily between them.
"We've got everything we need," Maverick said, glancing at the map and coded documents they had recovered. "It's time to move forward. The city's close. If we can get inside, things will be easier."
The team nodded in silent agreement. With swift, practiced movements, they packed up their gear and followed Maverick as he led them through a narrow, winding path beneath the cover of trees and broken stone walls. The ruined outskirts gave way to cracked roads and long-abandoned vehicles as they approached the city limits.
Within minutes, they reached the edge of the city—a crumbling, silent sprawl under the gray sky. Cautiously, they entered a narrow alleyway, avoiding the main roads. The buildings, though worn by time and war, still offered shelter. Maverick pointed to a nearby structure with boarded windows and an accessible rooftop.
"In here," he whispered.
They slipped inside, moving like shadows. The house was quiet, its furniture dusty and broken. From an upper window, they finally got a clear view of the city square. Tall structures loomed over a courtyard below, where patrols moved through regularly.
As they observed, a group of soldiers entered the square, talking in low voices. The team ducked behind the windowsill, ears straining to catch the conversation.
"It looks like someone snuck inside," one soldier said, glancing around cautiously.
"Yeah," another replied. "It's been years since anyone pulled that off. Last time, it was that rebel girl… what was her name again?"
"Mary Snitz," the first soldier said. "She made quite a name for herself."
Maverick narrowed his eyes. "They're talking about us," he muttered. Then, louder to his team, "Snipers, get to the roof. Take them out before they report this."
Without a word, the snipers moved, scaling the creaky staircase and slipping through a hatch to the rooftop. A few silent shots rang out moments later. The soldiers in the square dropped where they stood.
Kale approached Maverick, his expression tense. "Sir, what's our next move? From what those soldiers said, there are thousands of troops in the city. How are we supposed to get through them—let alone kill the president?"
Maverick looked out the window, eyes scanning the horizon. His jaw clenched. "We need to be smart. First, we find out how tight their patrols are. Then we look for weak points. But above all, we have to blend in."
"Blend in?" Kale asked, raising an eyebrow. "You want us to pose as soldiers?"
"If it's the only way, yes," Maverick replied. "If we go in guns blazing, we won't make it ten feet. But if we infiltrate their ranks—disguises, behavior, the whole act—we might just get close enough."
Kale took a moment to process the plan. "That's risky."
"Everything about this mission is risky," Maverick said. "But we're here now. And the president's not going to take himself out. We adapt or we die."
The rest of the team gathered around as Maverick continued outlining the plan. "Tonight, we rest and observe. We watch their movements, see how the soldiers operate, where they eat, where they sleep, and how they communicate. Tomorrow, we find uniforms—steal them if we have to. Once we're inside their ranks, we find a way to the presidential sector. That's our path to him."
The room was silent for a moment as the gravity of the plan settled in. Each person knew the danger, but no one backed away.
"We didn't come this far to fail," Maverick said. "Stay sharp. Move silent. We strike when the time is right."
Outside, the city's lights flickered on, casting an eerie glow over the broken streets. Inside the shadows of an old, forgotten house, a plan of rebellion took root—one that would shape the future of a nation.
Armin asked Kliner, "Who are Sheath's close friends?"Kliner responded, "Lira, Kale, Rein, and Isame."Armin nodded. "We can use them. Keep them alive—they might be useful, especially Lira."
The group moved silently through the army base under the cover of darkness, the tension thick in the air. Their mission was clear: infiltrate, eliminate, and blend in. Like shadows, they dispatched unsuspecting soldiers one by one, quick and efficient. Each fallen soldier was another step closer to their goal. After securing the perimeter, they stripped away the fallen enemies' uniforms and disguised themselves, merging seamlessly with the remaining troops.
Inside the barracks, Sheath spotted Lira tugging at the collar of an oversized uniform. She raised an eyebrow and walked over.
"Hey," Sheath said with a small grin. "That doesn't really fit you… that one's for the guys."
Lira looked up, rolling her eyes. "There was nothing else left. This was the only one that wasn't soaked in blood or torn to shreds."
Rein snickered from behind them. "Not gonna lie… you look kind of funny."
Lira gave him a flat stare. "Shut up and focus on the mission," she muttered, checking her weapon and adjusting her belt. Her tone was sharp, but her hands trembled slightly. Everyone was nervous—even her.
Maverick's voice echoed through the room, sharp and commanding. "Are you all ready? We need to move out and blend with the other soldiers."
"Yes!" the group replied in unison, their voices firm but laced with tension.
Maverick stepped forward, handing out small communication devices. "Stay close to each other. Do not split up. Avoid mingling too much with the other soldiers unless necessary. Take these—we'll use them to stay in contact."
They clipped the devices discreetly onto their collars, testing the signals with subtle nods before filing out of the barracks. The world outside was chaotic, soldiers rushing in all directions, trucks moving supplies, and the heavy drone of aircraft circling overhead.
The recruits marched in line, maintaining perfect formation. Their disguises were near flawless, and no one paid them much attention. The army camp was massive, sprawling like a maze of concrete and steel, with the central building towering in the distance. That building—fortified, guarded, and bustling with officials—was where the president was expected to arrive.
As they joined the flow of soldiers toward the center, a stern voice rang out through the loudspeakers.
"Why are so many of you late today?" the commander barked. "If you're late again, I'll have your salaries cut!"
One of the disguised recruits muttered under his breath, "To cut my salary, I'd have to actually be working for you. I'm not. I'm here to kill you."
Maverick's voice crackled in through the comms. "Hold your fire. We don't start anything yet. We head straight to the center building and take out the president. If things go south, our backup team is ready to move in."
They followed the crowd to the towering central structure—a place from where the nation was managed, orders given, lives changed. It was both a symbol of power and a cage of control. Their mission was not just about revenge—it was about breaking the system that had ruined so many lives.
Inside the building, soldiers were assigned to different positions along the inner courtyard. The recruits blended in, receiving their spots with casual nods, hiding their nerves beneath hardened expressions. Then came the waiting.
Thirty-five long, tension-filled minutes passed before the convoy arrived. The rumble of the president's armored vehicle reverberated through the ground, and all eyes turned to the entrance. Camera crews scrambled for position as the reporters broadcast live. Crowds gathered behind barricades, waving flags and chanting.
"Okai! Okai! Okai! Okai! Okai!"The name of the president, Okai, thundered through the air, repeated like a spell by the cheering masses.
The black armored car came to a halt at the end of the red carpet. The door opened slowly, and President Okai emerged with a practiced smile, flanked by guards in crisp black uniforms. The soldiers around raised their rifles and fired blank rounds into the sky in a ceremonial salute.
But something was off.
Amid the rhythmic shots and cheers, a few rifles didn't point skyward.
The disguised recruits turned their guns, not up—but directly at the president.
At first, no one noticed. A few confused looks flickered through the crowd. Then gasps followed. The guards began to react—but it was too late.
The recruits opened fire.
The sound of live ammunition cut through the celebration like a blade. President Okai staggered backward, bullets tearing through his chest. He collapsed to the red carpet as his guards shouted and scrambled to form a barrier—but within seconds, they were cut down too.
Chaos erupted.
The civilians screamed and scattered. People trampled one another in the stampede, desperate to escape the gunfire. News crews ducked and ran, their cameras left behind, still recording the massacre live.
Soldiers returned fire, but the recruits had numbers, coordination, and the element of surprise. With sharp movements and ruthless precision, they brought down anyone who stood in their way. For a moment, it seemed the mission was a success. The president was dead. The system, broken at its core, had been struck down publicly and decisively.
They had done it.
Then—shouts echoed from the buildings around them.
Hundreds of soldiers poured in from all directions, rifles raised and surrounding the courtyard. The sound of boots pounding the pavement was deafening. Within seconds, the recruits found themselves encircled by a wall of enemies.
They froze.
Maverick's voice whispered through the comms again, but this time it lacked the fire it once carried. "They were ready for us…"
There was no cover, no exit, no time.
The recruits had no choice but to drop their weapons and raise their hands. Around them, the air was filled with the cries of the wounded, the whimpers of terrified civilians, and the heavy silence of defeat.
They had killed the president—but at what cost?
As they knelt on the bloodied pavement, hands on their heads, surrounded by the might of the army they had just infiltrated, one thought echoed in all their minds:
Hours passed in a dim, blood-scented cell beneath the central building. The remaining recruits were chained to the cold, damp walls, their wrists rubbed raw and blood crusting at their ankles. The silence between them was heavy, broken only by the faint groans of the wounded and the occasional scream echoing from down the corridor.
A group of soldiers marched in, rifles slung over their shoulders and cruelty etched into their expressions. One of them stepped forward, eyes scanning the recruits with disdain.
"Who sent you?" he barked, voice sharp and demanding.
One of the recruits, eyes sunken with exhaustion and fear, hesitated but finally said, "Armin."
Before the name had even finished leaving his lips, a shot rang out. The soldier pulled the trigger without flinching, and the bullet tore through the recruit's mouth, silencing him forever. His body slumped against the chains, lifeless.
No one moved.
Another soldier stepped forward, grabbing the next recruit by the collar. "Talk."
The boy, younger than the others, trembling but trying to be brave, whispered, "Kliner…"
The answer sealed his fate. A second shot fired, this one piercing his chest. He collapsed, coughing blood, eyes wide with shock. His death was slower.
The recruits began to realize the pattern—talk or don't talk, it didn't matter. Death came either way.
Sheath, one of the more experienced among them, clenched his fists and screamed, "If you're so desperate to kill someone, kill me first!"
The soldier turned his gaze to Sheath and sneered. "Your death will be fast—just like you asked."
He raised his rifle and shot another recruit, standing right next to Sheath. The lifeless body crumpled, and the soldier laughed as he walked away from Sheath—taunting, twisting the knife.
Another seasoned fighter, chained across the room, yelled out, "Kill me, not them!"
The soldier paused and looked around. "What's this? Are all of you trying to protect this boy or something?" His tone was mocking now, laced with a predator's curiosity.
He turned and shot the recruit who had spoken, then slowly looked back at Sheath.
In his corner, Sheath's mind raced. Why? Why are they doing this? Why are they dying—one after another—for me? How many more will fall… because of me?
He stared at the blood pooling around their feet, and the weight of the sacrifice settled heavily on his shoulders. His jaw clenched. He wanted to scream, to fight, but he couldn't move. All he could do was watch.
Then the soldier walked toward Lira. She was bruised and silent, breathing heavily through clenched teeth. He grinned.
"Cute girl," he said with venom in his voice, "but I can't spare your life. Orders are orders."
He raised his rifle to her head.
"Are you so weak," Sheath growled, his voice cutting through the moment like a blade, "that you need a gun to kill a girl? If you're really strong—why don't you punch me to death instead?"
The soldier paused, lowering his gun. He turned with a crooked smile. "Oh? Want to make your death more painful? Fine by me."
He stepped up to Lira and drove his fist into her face with brutal force. She cried out, falling to the floor as a tooth skittered across the stone. Her mouth bled, and she gasped in pain.
Maverick, still chained to the far wall, had seen enough.
"This is my fault," he said, his voice shaking with guilt. "This happened because of me. So kill me. Kill me and end this."
The soldier turned toward him slowly, eyes glinting with cruel amusement. "Why do so many of you want to die? What is it with your little martyr complex?"
Without waiting for an answer, he turned back to Lira, kicking her hard in the ribs. She curled into herself, groaning.
Then he walked toward Maverick, cracking his knuckles as he approached.
And so, one by one, the recruits continued to suffer, not because they were weak—but because they were willing to protect each other. Even in chains, even facing death, they stood together.
Their spirits hadn't broken—yet. But time was running out.