CHAPTER 28: THE SPOTLIGHT
It was a quiet night at Fort Sentinel, one of the United States’ most secure and heavily guarded military bases. The hum of machinery and the faint clinking of boots echoed through the steel corridors. Soldiers, most off-duty, rested in their barracks, unaware of the nightmare about to unfold.
The Black Angel had a plan. Not just a plan, but a statement—one so bold, it bordered on lunacy. He didn’t creep into the base like a thief in the night; he walked in, his jet-black cloak billowing behind him, his footsteps silent but purposeful. With each stride, the air around him grew colder, heavier, as if the atmosphere itself recognized the presence of something otherworldly.
He reached the center of the base, a vast open courtyard surrounded by barracks, tanks, and watchtowers. There, under the flickering floodlights, he stood motionless. The silence stretched, eerie and suffocating, before he tilted his head back and unleashed a roar that didn’t sound human. It was a guttural, bone-chilling bellow, a sound that resonated deep in the marrow of every soldier stationed there.
The response was immediate. Alarms blared. Lights flickered to life, illuminating the imposing figure standing in the courtyard. Soldiers scrambled from their bunks, grabbing rifles and gear as the base came alive with urgency. Within minutes, over 450 soldiers surrounded him, their guns trained on the intruder. Watchtowers bristled with snipers, and five armored tanks rumbled into position, their massive cannons aimed directly at him.
And yet, the Black Angel stood still, calm, almost bored. His crimson eyes glowed faintly under the shadow of his hood. As the soldiers barked commands at him to surrender, he slowly raised his head, a wicked grin spreading across his face.
“Attack me, BITCHES,” he said, his voice dripping with arrogance and defiance.
The command was given, and all hell broke loose.
The soldiers opened fire in unison, the deafening roar of gunfire filling the air as hundreds of bullets screamed toward their target. The tanks fired massive rounds, the recoil shaking the ground as explosions lit up the night. Smoke and dust enveloped the courtyard, shrouding the Black Angel in a haze of destruction.
But when the dust cleared, he was still standing.
The bullets had bounced harmlessly off his body, clinking to the ground like raindrops on steel. The tank rounds? They had impacted but left nothing more than scorch marks on the concrete. The Black Angel stood amidst the chaos, unscathed and unmoved. He cracked his neck, the sound echoing ominously, before letting out a dark chuckle.
Then, slowly, he reached behind him and drew his weapon—a five-foot-long curved blade, its edge impossibly thin, gleaming under the harsh floodlights. At the tip of the blade was an intricate engraving of an eye, almost lifelike in its detail, as if it were watching the soldiers, judging them.
With his sword in hand, he began his march.
What followed wasn’t a battle—it was a massacre.
The Black Angel moved with inhuman speed, closing the distance between himself and the soldiers before they could react. His blade sang through the air, carving through rifles, armor, and flesh with terrifying ease. He was a blur, a whirlwind of death, his cloak trailing behind him as he danced through the ranks.
One soldier raised his rifle, but before he could fire, the Black Angel was upon him, slicing the weapon in half and delivering a fatal blow in the same motion. Another tried to flee, but the Black Angel hurled his blade with pinpoint accuracy, the sword impaling the man through the chest before returning to its master’s hand as if summoned by an unseen force.
The tanks fired again, their massive cannons roaring, but the Black Angel leaped into the air, his movements impossibly graceful for someone wielding such a massive weapon. He landed on the turret of one tank, driving his blade through its armor like a knife through butter. The machine sputtered and exploded, the blast illuminating his silhouette as he jumped to the next target.
The soldiers were helpless. Their bullets couldn’t touch him, their tanks couldn’t stop him, and their numbers only made it easier for him to showcase his terrifying skill. He was methodical, precise, and utterly merciless.
Amidst the carnage, a few soldiers tried to retreat, but the Black Angel wasn’t done. He raised his blade, the engraved eye glowing faintly, and slashed it through the air. A shockwave erupted from the motion, tearing through the retreating troops and sending them flying like ragdolls.
By the time the chaos subsided, the courtyard was unrecognizable. Smoke and flames filled the air, bodies and wreckage littering the ground. The once-imposing tanks were now smoldering husks, and the soldiers—those who survived—lay broken and defeated.
The Black Angel stood amidst the destruction, his blade dripping with blood, his cloak tattered but still flowing ominously in the wind. He turned to the last remaining group of soldiers, who were huddled together, their weapons trembling in their hands.
With a smirk, he sheathed his sword and spoke, his voice calm and mocking:
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“Tell your leaders… this was just a warm-up.”
And with that, he vanished into the night, leaving the survivors to process the devastation.
News of the incident spread like wildfire. The Black Angel’s audacious assault on one of the most secure military bases in the world became the stuff of legend. It wasn’t just a fight—it was a declaration, a bold statement that no force on Earth could stop him. And as the military scrambled to regroup, one thing was clear: they had underestimated their enemy.
The Black Angel had made his mark, and the world would never be the same
The Mechanical Mistake
Word of the Black Angel’s assault on Fort Sentinel sent shockwaves through the military. Scrambling to save face and reassert dominance, the top brass convened in a classified war room, desperate to devise a strategy against the seemingly invincible foe. After hours of deliberation, they turned to their most advanced weapon: Project Titan, a 30-foot-tall mechanized lizard-like war machine.
This wasn’t just a machine; it was a fortress on legs, bristling with every weapon imaginable. Guns lined its body, from heavy-caliber turrets to rapid-fire Gatling guns. Lasers capable of melting steel in seconds sat mounted on its head, alongside flamethrowers spewing fire hot enough to turn sand into glass. Massive circular saws spun menacingly on its arms, and hidden compartments housed blades, meat grinders, and missile launchers. If it existed to kill, Project Titan had it.
As it rumbled out of its hangar, the metallic monstrosity gleamed under the floodlights. Soldiers cheered, confident that this mechanical titan would be the one to crush the Black Angel. The military sent it out with one simple command:
"Eliminate the target. No survivors."
Hours later, deep in a forest clearing where the Black Angel had been last spotted, the mechanical beast faced its opponent. The Black Angel stood there, unimpressed, his arms crossed as if he were watching a particularly dull fireworks display. The robot’s sensors locked onto him, and with an earsplitting roar, it unleashed its full arsenal.
Lasers streaked through the air, guns thundered, and flamethrowers turned the clearing into an inferno. The Black Angel dodged effortlessly, his movements faster than the machine’s targeting systems could keep up with. Bullets whizzed past him, explosions erupted around him, but he never faltered.
Then, with a casual sigh, he whispered, "Is this your best?"
In a flash, he vanished, reappearing directly in front of the metallic beast. The Black Angel crouched, coiled like a spring, before leaping high into the air with inhuman speed. His cloak billowed behind him as he descended like a missile, cocking his right fist back for a devastating blow.
The punch landed with a deafening BOOM that echoed through the forest. His fist connected squarely with the robot’s chest in a flawless right cross, and the sheer force of the impact cratered the beast’s chest plating inward. A five-foot-wide dent marred the metal, sparks erupting as internal systems short-circuited. The mighty war machine toppled backward, its enormous bulk crashing to the ground with an earth-shaking THUD.
For a moment, the forest was still, save for the flickering flames and the groan of strained metal. The soldiers monitoring the robot’s systems back at the base stared at their screens in horror as error messages and system failures piled up faster than they could comprehend. Project Titan had been floored by a single punch.
But the Black Angel wasn’t done. He descended from his landing position with eerie calm, his crimson eyes glowing brighter as he stalked toward the downed machine. Sparks and smoke poured from the beast’s chest as it struggled to rise, but the Black Angel was already upon it. With a smirk, he reached for his blade and whispered, "Time to end this joke."
The mechanical beast groaned in protest, its systems desperately trying to reboot. But the Black Angel gave it no chance. With a flick of his wrist, he plunged his blade deep into the machine's core, sending out a violent burst of sparks and an earsplitting metallic shriek. The war machine’s thrashing slowed, its weapons sputtering to silence as its systems finally failed.
Standing atop the lifeless giant, the Black Angel surveyed his handiwork. Smoke billowed into the night sky, and the once-proud Project Titan lay crumpled beneath him like a discarded toy. But he wasn’t done yet.
With an almost casual air, he extended his hand toward the wreckage. The surrounding air began to ripple, and a deep rumble resonated through the clearing. Slowly, impossibly, the mangled remains of the war machine started to move, as if obeying some unseen force.
The Black Angel’s crimson eyes glowed brighter as he clenched his fist, and the shattered metal folded in on itself. Plates compressed, wires coiled, and massive components twisted into place with unnatural precision. The scene was mesmerizing, equal parts terrifying and surreal, as the remains of the once-mighty Project Titan were compressed into a perfect, five-foot-square block of gleaming, scarred metal.
Satisfied with his creation, the Black Angel stepped back, admiring the flawless symmetry of his work. He placed a hand on the metal cube, almost affectionately, before lifting it with ease—despite its massive weight.
“Time to return your toy,” he muttered with a smirk.
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The Drop-Off
In the dead of night, the soldiers at Fort Sentinel were still reeling from their earlier humiliation. Guards patrolled nervously, casting wary glances at every shadow, every flicker of movement, fearing the return of the Black Angel.
Suddenly, a deafening CRASH shattered the uneasy quiet. The ground shook as something massive landed in the center of the base’s main courtyard. Floodlights snapped on, illuminating the source of the noise.
There it was—a flawless, five-foot-square metal block, its surface still faintly warm from the compression. Burn marks and dents marred its surface, telling the tale of its violent creation. On top of the cube, scrawled in deep, jagged marks, was a single message:
"Thanks for the warm-up. Try harder next time. - The Black Angel."
The soldiers stared in stunned silence, their faces pale as the realization set in. Not only had their most advanced weapon been destroyed, but the remains had been delivered back to them like some grotesque gift. The generals, watching the scene from the war room, were equally speechless, their minds racing as they grasped the sheer audacity of what had just occurred.
Somewhere in the distance, a single soldier muttered under his breath:
"What the hell are we dealing with?"
The Black Angel, now far from the base, smirked as he disappeared into the shadows. Another warning had been sent, another legend written in blood and steel. The message was clear: no army, no weapon, no force could stop him.
The world would never be the same.