The final defenders of Sacra-Hill fell within an hour, their valiant resistance crushed under the might of the Austorian 2nd Army. With no choice left, the remaining garrison surrendered, their last stand collapsing under the relentless attack. Scattered resistance fighters watched from hidden vantage points, clutching their weapons as they witnessed the grim end.
On a hill overlooking the city, Lords Garval Jigan and Indus Palper surveyed the scene with cold detachment. Standing beside them, the garrison commander of Sacra-Hill, bound and defiant, spat at the ground in silent defiance. As the generals gave orders for the city’s control to be transferred to Commander Sanra Desgan and her 3rd Subjugation Force, the grim procession began. The surrendering soldiers of the garrison, lined up in the square, met the same fate as the city—swift, brutal, and merciless. Under Desgan’s orders and with the active approval of Jigan and Palper, the 3rd Subjugation Force systematically executed the defeated defenders, ignoring every code of conduct and convention on wartime surrender.
Jigan and Palper gave no indication of guilt or hesitation, and as they mounted their horses to leave, Palper glanced disdainfully toward the city. “The 3rd will make quick work of anyone left. Their methods may be… unconventional, but it serves a purpose.”
Jigan scowled. “Unconventional is putting it lightly. Desgan’s nothing but a butcher. My son was right to annul the engagement.” He glanced back at the city, grimacing. “This is going to be messy no matter how you cut it.”
Palper nodded in agreement as the two generals rode off, their horses kicking up dust while the garrison commander, bound and bloodied, was dragged behind them. As the 2nd Army departed, they left Sacra-Hill under the command of the 3rd Subjugation Force—a force that took twisted pleasure in the devastation left behind.
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Hidden within the shadows of a crumbling bell tower, Garrett Ironback, codenamed Showdown 2 Golf, adjusted the focus on his binoculars. He had been observing the outer defensive wall, his eyes locked on the grim spectacle unfolding below. The surrendered defenders of Sacra-Hill stood in a line, disarmed and visibly shaken, while the Austorian 3rd Subjugation Force, clad in their ominous dark armor, corralled them like cattle.
Garrett’s hand tightened around his radio as he watched one of the garrison’s senior officers step forward, his head held high even in defeat. A soldier from the 3rd barked orders before drawing his sword. The officer barely flinched as the blade struck. The line erupted in chaos as the rest of the defenders, defenseless and kneeling, were systematically executed.
Garrett exhaled slowly, forcing his voice into a calm monotone as he keyed his mic. “Showdown 2 Actual, this is Showdown 2 Golf. Do you copy?”
The radio crackled softly before Chip Lancer’s voice came through. “Showdown 2 Golf, this is Showdown 2 Actual. Send your traffic, over.”
“Garrison’s done, Sir. The 2nd handed them over to the 3rd Subjugation Force. I just witnessed a mass execution, they just killed all the surrendered defenders, sir. Second is on the move out of the city now.”
A pause hung in the air before Chip responded, his voice taut with controlled anger. “Understood, Golf. Relocate immediately. I want eyes on any upper command still in the area. Relay anything you find back to me. Actual out.”
Garrett hesitated for a fraction of a second, his gaze returning to the bodies below. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus. “Copy that, Actual. Moving out.” He packed up his gear, his movements automatic, but his mind lingered on what he had just seen.
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From his vantage point across the city, Chip Lancer adjusted his binoculars, carefully scanning the perimeter of the slaver collar warehouse. The KnightEagle’s earlier flyover had confirmed heightened Austorian activity in the area, and now, small groups of soldiers moved in and out of the building in a steady stream.
Chip lowered the binoculars, muttering a curse under his breath. His mind drifted briefly to Garrett’s report, the image of the execution line flashing in his head.
“Damn it,” he whispered to himself. “They’re murdering everyone, and we can’t do a thing about it until the assault team gets here.”
He clenched his jaw, pushing the thought away. Self-recrimination wouldn’t help, not now. His team’s orders were clear: observe, relay, and wait. Acting prematurely could jeopardize everything.
Chip raised the binoculars again, scanning the warehouse more closely. His sharp eyes tracked the movement of Austorian soldiers, noting their patterns and behavior. A flicker of movement on the roof drew his attention, and he adjusted the focus.
“Come on,” he muttered. “What are you up to?”
His binoculars zeroed in on a group of Austorian officers clustered near a large crate being offloaded from a wagon. Their body language was tense, almost frantic, as they gestured toward the crate. One of them opened it, revealing a faint glimmer of something inside. Chip couldn’t make out the details, but whatever it was caused the officers to exchange hurried words.
Then he saw it. A distinct symbol etched on the side of the crate—a mark he recognized instantly. His heart sank, and he felt a surge of anger rise in his chest.
“Son of a—” he hissed, lowering the binoculars. His hands moved automatically to his radio as he prepared to report the discovery, but his voice remained steady, his training taking over.
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High above the sprawling Trenbres Forest, the formation of V280 Valors and Invictus helicopters maintained a steady course, their rotors slicing through the air. The aircraft flew low, skimming the treetops in a tight “nap of the earth” formation to avoid detection.
Inside one of the Valors, 2nd Lt. Grant Cramdell leaned over a map spread out on his lap. The hum of the engines and the occasional chatter over the intercom formed a steady background noise as he reviewed the mission with Sergeant First Class Rudeus Draken.
“Ammo, water, food,” Cramdell said, checking off items as Draken nodded. “We’re light, but we’ve got enough to get through the mission. We’ll need to be careful with resupplies once we hit the ground.”
Draken’s calm demeanor was steadying. “We’ll make it work, sir. Just remember, once we’re in, keep the squad flexible. Intel’s always gonna change on the ground.”
Cramdell nodded, looking up as a signal from Sergeant Dagger caught his attention. Switching to an isolated channel, he responded. “What’s up, Dagger?”
“Sir, just a heads-up,” Dagger said, his voice low but clear. “Activity near the warehouse is picking up. The fire’s got some Austorians moving fast. There’s a chance they’ll clear that place out before we get there. If that happens, we might need backup to secure the objective.”
Cramdell’s jaw tightened. “Understood, Dagger. I’ll send as many men as I can spare, but we’ve got our own objectives to hit, too. Might take us a minute to get to you.”
“No problem, sir,” Dagger replied. “Just knowing you’re coming is enough.”
Cramdell gave a slight nod, even though Dagger couldn’t see it. “We’ll be there. Count on it.”
As the channel switched back to the main intercom, Draken gestured toward the mission map again, drawing Cramdell’s attention back to the plan. Outside, the vast forest stretched endlessly below them, and as the helicopters cleared the final line of trees, they climbed into the cover of low-hanging clouds.
Sacra-Hill loomed on the horizon, its smoldering remains visible even from this distance. The tension in the cabin was palpable, each soldier silently preparing for the battle ahead.
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Below, hidden among the city’s ruins, Chip Lancer raised his binoculars again, scanning the warehouse. His lips pressed into a grim line as he adjusted the focus, locking onto the officers near the crates once more.
What he saw made him curse again, louder this time.
“Showdown 2 Actual to Northpaw,” he whispered into his radio. “We’ve got a problem.”