POV: Resistance Strike Team – Operation Night Fang
Location: Perimeter Zone B19, 2:37AM
The night was black as pitch, the kind that swallowed shadows whole. Not even moonlight dared cut through the weight of silence hanging over the convoy route.
Commander Elira Morn crouched on a low ridge overlooking the valley pass. Below them, the convoy had just begun its slow approach—unmarked matte-black trucks gliding like phantoms across the earth.
This was the moment.
The Resistance had planned every second.
Their intel said only Amara was commanding the transport—a sleek lead cruiser surrounded by light recon units and a few mobile turrets. According to Tayo's deep-sea scans, there were no major armored escorts.
This was the perfect window.
This was the kill switch.
Until—
The silence cracked.
One of the scouts, posted on the west flank, suddenly screamed into the comms:
> "TANK! TANK—NO—TANKS! THEY'RE EVERYWHERE! THEY—"
The line cut.
And the valley floor began to breathe.
Not trucks.
Tanks.
The earth trembled as steel beasts began to rise from beneath the dirt, from cliff-side hollows, from beneath the very road the convoy rolled upon.
Seventy million.
Silent. Camouflaged. Deadly.
Chris had played them.
These weren't just any tanks.
These were the Silent Guard—a myth even within the Empire. Unmanned. Programmed for complete annihilation under one command: Protect Amara. Erase all threats.
Elira froze.
This wasn't a trap.
This was a mass burial site.
Behind her, Red screamed and started firing a pulse bomb. Kira launched EMP grenades toward the road, trying to disrupt whatever electronics were guiding the tanks. Tayo yelled:
> "THEY'RE JAMMING US! WE'RE BLIND!"
The tanks opened fire—not explosive rounds, but sonic cannons, designed to incapacitate without leaving a trace of blood. The Resistance team was thrown like dolls, crashing into rocks, trees, and ice.
On the road, Amara stepped out of her cruiser, her cloak catching the faint light.
She didn't draw a weapon. She didn't need to.
> "No one ambushes a command set by the God of the Empire," she said coldly, her voice carried by a voice modulator built into her suit.
"You were warned."
A tank hovered beside her, scanned her vitals, then continued scanning the perimeter—always watching.
Elira coughed blood onto her arm, crawling behind a ridge. Her ears rang. Her vision blurred.
They hadn't just underestimated Amara.
They'd forgotten who gave her power.
Chris Blackwood.
And when Chris moves—he moves with a hand heavy enough to erase nations quietly.
—