In the dead of night, the government forces struck with no warning. Sirens howled like banshees, and armored transports roared through the shattered streets. Soldiers in black uniforms burst into homes, dragging terrified civilians into the open. Among the chaos, a small house on the outskirts of the city became the epicenter of an unrelenting assault.
Inside, a former high-ranking government official and his teenage son had just seconds to flee. They were marked—traitors to the new regime. Flames devoured buildings as gunfire echoed through the alleyways. Blood soaked the earth. The cries of the dying mingled with the roar of collapsing concrete and the crackling of fire.
Father and son ran. From one ruin to the next, they clung to the shadows. Days blurred together. They scavenged for food, evaded drones, and watched friends and allies fall one by one. The rebellion was in ashes.
At last, their path came to a dead end—an abandoned checkpoint in the northern forest. The government had predicted their route. Armed units surrounded them like vultures. The boy's breath trembled. The father knew.
"Run," he ordered, blood already staining his uniform.
"But—"
"No arguments. You're the last flame we have left."
Then, with a defiant roar, the man charged into the fray, drawing fire away from his son. The boy ran. He looked back only once—just in time to see his father pierced by bullets, collapsing in the mud.
Tears burned down his cheeks.
He escaped.
Days later, in the ruins of an old rebel outpost, he gathered the last surviving disciples—wounded, broken, desperate. They were all that remained. No sword, no power. Only rage, purpose, and a vow forged in blood.
The true rebellion was about to begin.