Feoth — Thirty Minutes After Liberation

After rescuing and liberating Feoth, they stayed there for half an hour before moving again, while leaving a token force of 3 battalions from a third expedition to help defend help the people while waiting for the other Eostians to arrive and relieve them from duty and follow the rest of the force.

While in the city, the 10,000 JTF soldiers helped the Feothian citizens rebuild, clean up the debris and the bodies, and provide food and water. They even help the wounded and bury the dead.

But the JTF did it like they'd done it a hundred times on a hundred different times: secure, stabilize, feed, treat, bury—then move.

"Water point right here!" a Botswanan Marine yelled, slapping a hand-painted sign onto a battered cart. "One line! No stampede! I will kick your ass if you trample a child, I swear to God!"

A butler—tall, antlered, in camo trousers and a pressed vest—was calmly distributing bread and dried fruit like he was hosting a royal banquet instead of surviving a siege.

"Small bites," he advised in a clipped, polite accent. "You will vomit if you eat like you're racing death. Which you were. But you're not now."

A Feothian woman with grime in her hair clutched a tin cup like it was holy. "Are... are you really soldiers?"

The butler blinked. "Ma'am, I am a butler." He paused, then added, deadpan: "But I have stabbed three men today. Please drink."

Knights and civilians moved side by side, hauling rubble, dragging bodies, praying over the dead.

Nearby, a maid knelt beside a dying man, whispering prayers as she held his hand until his grip went slack. She closed his eyes gently, then stood up, jaw tight, and helped a knight drag him toward a burial line.

The knights of Feoth moved like ghosts—ash-faced, hollow-eyed, ashamed, grateful, furious, all at once. The civilians watched the JTF with a kind of stunned reverence that didn't feel comfortable.

Then the sky changed.

Not with bombers.

With escorts.

High-altitude contrails cut the clouds clean. Naval VTOLs circled wide. Drones pulled back like someone had yanked them on a leash, clearing the airspace without being asked.

A dozen JEF troops looked up at the same time.

"...Uh," a Ukrainian Marine muttered, squinting. "That ain't our rotation."

"Those are flag escorts," a Russian NCO said, voice low. "That's... that's big-boy protocol."

"Who the fuck—" a Japanese corporal started.

And then the convoy arrived.

At first, every instinct in the JTF screamed reinforcements—until the flags came into view.

A hush rolled through Feoth like a held breath.

Three battalions disembarked first—clean, disciplined, already moving into perimeter security and humanitarian lanes like they'd rehearsed it yesterday. Medical elements set up. Engineers rolled out bridging kits and portable generators. MPs formed controlled traffic points without barking at civilians.

Then the HVIP vehicles came.

Not troop carriers.

Command vehicles.

The first man to step out made Anthony stop dead.

Ven'di's mouth fell open. "Holy shit."

Jacob Rawlins—four-star General, Commandant of the United States Marine Corps—walked forward wearing a grin that hadn't changed even after rank and time tried to sand it down.

Same scar.
Same shoulders.
Same "I've slept in worse places" posture.

Anthony stared like the universe had personally insulted him.

"...You gotta be fucking kidding me."

Rawlins opened his arms. "You always did like stealing the show, Ant."

They collided in a hard hug—two war-dogs pretending they weren't relieved to see each other alive.

Rawlins pulled back, still smiling. "You look like hell."

Anthony snorted. "You look like you got promoted into paperwork."

Rawlins laughed. "Yeah, well—"

Then Wayne stepped out behind him.

Wayne Graham Towson.
Fleet Admiral.
United States Navy.
Anthony's twin brother.

Wayne clapped Anthony's shoulder with that same "brother" weight—half affection, half don't die on me, dumbass.

"Mom would've yelled at you," Wayne said, eyes sweeping the rubble and the burned wall. "Starting a war on another continent."

Anthony smirked. "She always said I never did anything small."

And then it got worse. Or better. Depending on who you asked.

Because the convoy didn't stop.

Out stepped the U.S. Secretary of Defense.

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.

Service chiefs—UNE equivalents from multiple branches and partner nations.

URK high ministers and war staff generals with old scars.

Princes and princesses from allied kingdoms—dressed sharp, escorted, eyes wide at the destruction they'd only seen on screens.

The square fell silent as if the city itself didn't want to breathe wrong.

Then the final motorcade slowed.

A man stepped out wearing no armor, no crown, no weapons.

Just a dark coat. Calm eyes. A presence that carried weight without shouting.

The President of the United States of America.

Anthony felt something tighten in his chest—something unfamiliar and unwelcome.

This just went global.

David, Aleksandr, Ven'di, Sir Elion, and the senior NCOs snapped into a loose formation on instinct. Not ceremonial perfection—combat formation pretending to be polite.

The President studied Feoth quietly—the rubble, the wounded, civilians drinking water handed to them by Marines and maids alike.

Then he turned to Anthony.

"General Towson."

Anthony blinked, brow furrowing.

"...Sir?"

The President smiled faintly. "Yes. General."

A ripple of shock ran through the JEF officers. Even some of the Marines looked sideways like they'd misheard.

The President's voice carried without shouting.

"Let me be very clear before rumors start flying. You are not here to be arrested. You are not here to be censured. You are not here to be reprimanded."

Anthony swallowed, face still stone.

"The public knows," the President continued. "Across UNE nations. Across allied kingdoms. They've seen the footage. The evacuations. The protection of civilians. The liberation of Rad, Ken, Ur, and Feoth."

He paused, eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at the burned breach in the wall.

"They wanted heads to roll. Turns out, they wanted the right ones to roll."

David muttered under his breath, "Well I'll be fucked."

The President glanced at him and smiled. "Colonel Fernandes."

David froze like someone had tagged him with a laser dot.

"...Sir?"

"You were a Chief Warrant Officer Five," the President said. "Highest you could go. So we fixed that."

David just stared. His face did that rare thing it almost never did—blank surprise.

"Effective immediately," the President continued, "you are promoted to Colonel. Field command authority confirmed."

David let out a slow breath. "Guess I gotta learn how to salute properly again."

That got a few laughs—nervous, relieved.

Then the President turned back to Anthony.

"Lieutenant General Towson—no longer."

He reached out and placed a hand briefly on Anthony's shoulder.

"You are promoted to General. Four-star. Full command authority."

It didn't hit like pride.

It hit like a rucksack filled with concrete.

Anthony felt the weight settle in—not pride, not relief.

Responsibility.

The Chairman stepped forward with a tablet.

"Recommendations have been approved," he said. "Multiple Medals of Honor. Including confirmations for actions in Ur and Feoth."

Anthony's eyes closed for a beat, like he was fighting something behind his ribs.

David snorted. "This is my third promotion. I'm starting to feel suspicious."

The President raised a hand. "Before anyone gets ideas—no statues."

A nearby admiral coughed. "Sir, that was actually proposed by—"

"Whoever suggested it," the President said flatly, "needs to be reminded that these men are still alive and still fighting. We don't build monuments while the war's ongoing."

Anthony nodded in quiet agreement.

Jacob stepped in beside Anthony, lowering his voice.

"The third expedition is now fully integrated," he said. "You're no longer running a Joint Expeditionary Force."

Anthony looked at the map table being set up nearby—Feoth, Ur, Ken, Rad, Garan, and beyond.

Rawlins met his eyes.

"You're commanding a Joint Corps Force now. Multiple expeditionary elements. Full naval and air integration. This isn't a raid anymore."

Wayne added quietly, "You're not just shaping battles, Ant. You're shaping the continent."

Anthony exhaled slowly, watching civilians drink water handed to them by Marines and maids alike.

"...Then we end this clean," he said. "No shortcuts. No bullshit."

Rawlins grinned. "Wouldn't recognize you if you did."

From a balcony overlooking the square, Alicia stood wrapped in a borrowed cloak.

She watched as generals saluted Anthony. As flags were raised. As civilians cheered—not for her, but for the troops who saved them.

For the first time in her life, no one looked at her like a savior.

And for the first time—

She understood why.

Prim stood beside her, quiet.

"This is what real power looks like," Prim said softly. "Not crowns. Not honor speeches."

Alicia nodded, shame burning—but something else too.

Resolve.

"...I was loud," Alicia whispered. "And I was wrong."

Prim didn't soften. She didn't need to.

"I know," Prim said simply. "Now you get to live with it. And fix it."

Alicia nodded once, trembling. "I will."

Anthony stepped back into command mode as the celebrations died down.

"Three battalions stay," he ordered. "Humanitarian focus. Defense only. Eostian relief will rotate in within forty-eight hours."

"Yes, sir!"

He turned toward the map.

"Garan is next," he said. "Dark Elves. Enslaved populations. Fortified terrain."

His eyes hardened.

"And Vult thinks he still has time."

He looked at Jacob, Wayne, David, and the assembled commanders.

"Let's remind him what happens when the world finally pays attention."

Then Anthony frowned, something belated clicking in his head as he looked at the royals standing there—some of them gawking, some of them solemn.

"...I just realized," Anthony said bluntly. "Why the hell are the royals here?"

A young man stepped forward with a fox-tail swaying behind him, dressed in fine field attire with a blade at his hip like he'd been born to both court and war.

Prince Tahoe Towson.

Kitsune Empire. Also, unfortunately, family.

Tahoe stared at Anthony like he was watching someone try to headbutt a math problem.

"Because your nobility rank rose," Tahoe said. "From Baron to Marquess."

Anthony blinked. "Okay."

Tahoe sighed with the patience of a saint trapped in a family of idiots.

"That is two ranks above Earl and Viscount," Tahoe continued, emphasizing each word like he was teaching a stubborn recruit. "Which means your political gravity just increased. Which means allied royals and URK high lords show up in person to confirm respect, alignment, and legitimacy." He tilted his head. "You're not listening again, are you?"

Anthony rubbed his face. "Tahoe, I'm listening. I just don't give a shit."

David nodded solemnly. "Same."

Aleksandr shrugged. "Titles don't stop bullets."

Ven'di smirked. "But the land and funding that come with it? I'll take that."

Tahoe pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Of course you don't care," he muttered. "You people treat noble rank like it's a new patch on a uniform."

Anthony snapped his fingers. "Exactly. Fancy title, extra responsibility, some benefits. That's it."

Wayne snorted. "Just don't forget the 'benefits' come with ten thousand politicians trying to touch your decisions."

Rawlins grinned. "Welcome to the big leagues, Ant."

Anthony stared out at Feoth—at the rubble, the survivors, the work still happening.

"...Yeah," he said quietly. "I know."

Then he lifted his head, voice back to steel.

"Alright. Enough ceremony." He pointed at the map. "We move. We hunt. We end this."

And around him—Marines, soldiers, maids, butlers, knights, elders, royals—everyone stopped watching the spectacle and started moving like the machine had re-engaged.

Because Feoth was saved.

And now the war had a new target.

Garan.

And beyond it—

Vult.

A day later, the Joint Corps Force or JCF are now in Garan, half a day of their arrival in the country of the Dark Elves, half of day of liberating the Dark Elves, as they were being held captive by the Black Dogs. Only to be saved by the same species that they have despised, humans.

At first, they didn't know what to do with the darker-skinned troops—the Africans, African-Americans, Caribbeans, and others—because from a distance, in smoke and chaos, skin tone was the quickest lie the brain could tell.

Some of the freed Dark Elves recoiled.

A few—still shaking from captivity—snarled "traitor" at the Dark Elves inside the JCF ranks for marching with humans.

And then they got close enough to see ears.

No taper. No points.

No elf traits. No half-elf glow. No subtle tells.

Just humans.

Humans who came in steel and discipline—then stopped and handed out water.

Aiden moved with the Dark Elf volunteer guide at his shoulder, speaking in a calm tone that didn't challenge pride.

"Listen up," Aiden said, projecting just enough for the growing crowd. "We are not here to rule you. We are not here to take your shit. We are not here to 'civilize' you. We are here to kill the Black Dogs and get you out alive."

A Dark Elf man—skin like midnight, eyes red-rimmed—glared. "Humans have never helped us."

Aiden nodded once. "Then you're overdue."

A URK dark-elf Scout Underofficer—Shai Aune—stepped forward and lifted her sleeve, showing the same arm-patch as the humans. Same unit markings. Same mud. Same blood.

"In the JCF," Shai said, voice clipped and hard, "we don't get to pick who the enemy is based on old grudges. We pick the enemy based on who's hurting children."

That did something.

You could see it in their faces—something small, fragile, and dangerous.

Hope.

The JCF didn't waste it.

They set up a protected lane for civilians. Medics triaged the weak. Engineers cleared rubble. MPs kept horny idiots and overeager "heroes" away from terrified survivors. Maids and butlers—camo uniforms crisp, blades and sidearms secure—worked like an elite relief corps.

A Botswanan Marine handed a blanket to a shaking Dark Elf girl and muttered, "Wrap up, sisi. You're safe."

The girl stared at him like he'd spoken magic.

"Why?" she whispered.

The Marine's eyes hardened. "Because fuck slavers. That's why."

Word spread fast through the liberated districts: the new humans were different. Rough. Loud. Profane. But they didn't hit you for looking wrong. They didn't leer at you like meat. They didn't talk about you like property.

And when Dark Elves noticed the commander—their liberator—was a dark-skinned human with iron in his posture?

They started whispering the word hero like it might bite them.

It didn't.

It stuck.

The carriers and surface group sat off the coast like they owned the ocean, because on Selenus they did. No shore batteries. No aircraft. No missiles. No radar. Nothing but medieval watchtowers staring at a steel horizon that didn't care about arrows.

A destroyer's gray hull glinted in the sun.

A sailor on the bridge leaned on the rail like he was watching a parade.

"Holy fuck," a dark-elf dockworker whispered, hands trembling around a rope. "That thing is a castle."

A Namibian Marine heard it and answered without looking back. "Yeah. And it's got better plumbing, too."

The dockworker flinched at the voice—then froze when he realized the Marine wasn't shouting, wasn't spitting, wasn't reaching for a whip or a chain.

He was just... talking.

That alone made the Dark Elves stare.

The port city that they would liberate would be taken within fifteen minutes upon the landing of the Marines as there were only a few thousand of Black Dog soldiers there as they begun to fallback and rally to stop the JCF advance who were quickly moving gains towards their HQ, the Black Citadel.

The Black Dogs doom has been sealed the moment when the JCF discovered of their motives and the reason of why they created such an Empire, one that would surpassed such hatred towards their former enemies in history. The Black Dogs may not cause harm to them, but their degenerate ideology as much as they hate it, they hated the Black Dogs ideology even more due to their degeneracy and they both knew rape accounts.

Either from the enemy, and even from their soldiers though it was more in frustration, relief or even revenge. But the Black Dogs just it worse because just they can, hell, not even medieval period doesn't have such an ideology like this.

The Anthony and Wayne coordinate their attacks that which have made a fast gain and liberated the city. Luckily, most of the Marines have stayed in the fleet, while David along with other three battalions were with the main force. And so they have a decent amount of Marines to do amphibious operations and they had support from the fleet and air power as they totally have all the advantages.

While then as they are near towards the Black Citadel.

The spell tore open reality behind a shattered warehouse on the outskirts.

Not a clean gate.

A ragged wound of light and shadow.

Dark Elves spilled out—dozens at first, then more—stumbling like people who'd been forced to sprint while drowning. Sorcerers collapsed to their knees, hands shaking, blood in their noses. The magic smelled like burned copper and wet stone.

JCF rifles snapped up on instinct—

—and snapped back down just as fast when the Dark Elf guide shouted, "Queen! That's the Queen!"

Olga Discordia stood among them.

Not in regal armor.

Not on a throne.

Just a young-adult woman with long black hair, eyes sharp despite exhaustion, posture straight despite the tremor in her legs.

Her expression was controlled—but it carried that specific, dangerous calm of someone who'd survived by thinking faster than the monsters around her.

Olga is said to be seductive, sultry, and ingenious – these are but a few words that describe every facet of Discordia's enigmatic personality. Despite the vast rumors that surround her secretive life, and her title of witch, she is, in truth, a very sociable woman to be around. Whether it's welcoming the hungry in for a meal, or curing certain sicknesses' with her potions, Discordia truly has a warm heart at her core.

She isn't exactly a charitable woman, per-se, but by no means is she a cruel individual either. If she saw homeless children littered out over the street, she'd adopt them in a heartbeat. Most of the time the only people she truly spends time around is Chloe, so any guest without ill-intentions are truly welcome to come to her humble abode. On the first meeting, Discordia usually possesses a cold, apathetic attitude towards strangers. This is done so that she can read how their person is, evaluate their intentions, and seek to find out whether they are truly good of heart, or as black as sin. Whenever she does find herself in harm's way, she will not hesitate to fight and fend for herself until she's been wringed of every drop of blood.

She's a fighter – and she won't hesitate to punish the opponent and in some cases, place an omen or curse upon them if they attempt to run away with their lives, especially after having made an attempt on her own. Of course, in the scheme of things, Discordia is almost always serene when it comes to public association. She has this sort of innocence about her that brings out certain primal desires in individuals, a sexual power or rather force that causes most to seek out her body. She's never accepted these advances, and will only give her body to someone who wishes to be with her until the end of time.

That is not to say she hasn't had a few slip-up's, here and there, but in each one she's never went any further than kissing or caressing the bodies of her temporary partners. During her time at home, Discordia still walks around with a sense of respect and class, something that her familiars enjoy the most about her. It wouldn't be too far-fetched to call her a queen, especially due to the fact that within her large house, she built her own throne. Once she amassed enough familiars and acquired the assistance of her bodyguard, Chloe, part of her simply couldn't resist the temptation. Of course, if one were to say she acts like a queen – this is where their assertions would lose validity.

To her familiars, Discordia acts much like a mother does, rewarding them when they have succeeded in the goals she lays out for them or – when they screw up – which requires her to give them an appropriate scolding. When Chloe, her assistant, is a concern, she has a special connection with her. She always loves teasing her when it comes to things she has yet to know about how certain things in the world are, especially sex. She often tells her not to be so formal, but nevertheless accepts it as a sign of her adamant loyalty to herself. In the end, Discordia goes against the general assumption of a witch, and seems more like a woman who merely knows how to use her good looks, enjoys living life to the fullest, and makes it her goal to make sure every day is spent like it's the last. In conclusion, Discordia is simply a woman who enjoys life and the motions that come with it.

Chloe is a sexy elf with long blonde hair in the back. She has large breasts, wears a blue shicked uniform, a long gray strapper that traps her vagina, blue long-socked tights connected to the uniform by red ribbons, and brown low-strapped boots.

Chloe, who is born a half-human and half-dark elf couldn't believe what she just heard. She holds a grudge against Humans because of her abusive childhood at the hands of a human sex slaver prior to being saved by Olga and wanted not to trust the humans in front of them.

Aiden stepped forward slowly, palms open, voice even.

"Your Majesty," he said. "You're safe. I'm Aiden Towson. This is Joint Corps Force territory now."

Chloe's jaw tightened. "Humans don't—"

Olga lifted two fingers. Not harsh. Just enough.

"Chloe." Her voice was soft—but it landed like a command. "Look."

Chloe looked.

Not at the rifles.

At the medics already moving toward their wounded.

At the Marines not grabbing, not gloating, not treating Dark Elves like captured loot.

At a butler offering water with the patience of a priest.

Olga's eyes narrowed slightly as she evaluated Aiden, then the line behind him.

"You're the son," she said quietly.

Aiden blinked. "Ma'am?"

Olga's gaze slid past him toward the armored columns in the distance. "Towson." Then back to him. "You carry his discipline."

Aiden exhaled, half amused and half exhausted. "Yeah, well... he yelled at me into shape."

Chloe's grip didn't loosen. "We can't teleport again," she admitted through clenched teeth, like it tasted bitter. "Kin's mage did something to our core casters. We—" She swallowed. "We're running on fumes."

Aiden nodded. "Then you're resting behind our line. My word."

Chloe stared at him like she wanted to believe him and hated that she did.

Olga stepped closer, eyes calm. "Vult's citadel holds no more prisoners," she said. "Not the living kind."

That message went down the chain in seconds.

And it flipped a switch.

Because "hostage restraint" was the last thing holding the JCF's brutality on a leash.

Aiden didn't smile—but there was a hard satisfaction in his eyes.

"Copy," he said. "Then we stop playing nice."

Olga watched him a moment longer.

In her mind, it wasn't romance.

Not yet.

It was something rarer than that.

Trust—forming under fire. And Olga later thanked the Anthony and the other leaders for freeing her people from slavery and genocide. And the US President—who tagged along to witness the war up close—promised that the rest of Garan will be free. And also told her that if would be possible, he'll be able to manage to have a talk with Celestine of sparing her life as well as her people, which Olga didn't mind as they have suffered already enough, and in her mind she found Aiden to be quite attractive and planning to reward him, as she could tell that the man was humble although arrogant but restraint not until victory is secured and so for the first time in her life she finally found humans to trust.

She did also found Anthony and David attractive but she could tell by their behaviors that they were married.

And so, they will be behind the lines where she will be resting along with her people who finally see their beloved queen once more.

When Vult discovered it, it was already way too late as they are no longer in the citadel. Not to mention the JCF have arrive outside the Citadel.

Anthony stood in full kit at the forward observation point, binoculars lowered, eyes flat.

"Well, folks," he said, voice calm and deadly, "now we're here. Their HQ. The Black Citadel."

Stepan—Commandant of the Ukrainian Marines—squinted toward the far wall where distant movement flickered. "I can see our Marines."

Anthony grunted. "Good. Means the net's tight."

The US President—still disguised in fatigues, still wearing a private's rank like a joke—stepped up beside them.

"General Kravchuk. General Towson."

Neither man snapped to attention. Neither saluted. Not out of disrespect—out of survival.

"Looks like we're about to end this conflict," the President said.

"Yeah," Stepan replied.

"Yep," Anthony added.

The President glanced between them. "Future plans?"

Anthony didn't hesitate. "Retire at seventy. Go fishing in Trinidad."

Stepan shrugged. "Same. Not Trinidad. But fishing, yeah. Maybe I paint. Something peaceful."

The President nodded like he envied them.

Then, quieter, he added, "I also noticed Discordia and her knight are watching your son."

Anthony's eyes narrowed instantly. Not jealous. Not possessive. Protective—like a father checking a perimeter.

"I already warned them," Anthony said flatly. "Hurt Aiden and the planet itself is gonna learn what consequences look like."

The President's mouth twitched. "Fair."

Anthony looked back at the citadel. "But right now, our problem is Vult."

A radio crackled.

"Breach teams in position."

"Drones up."

"Armor ready."

"URK shock squads staged."

Rawlins' voice came over the net like a knife. "Ant. You want this loud or surgical?"

Anthony's answer was immediate.

"Both."

Black Citadel — Throne room

Vult was beyond furious as well as afraid. Because less then months ago, he was making progress towards the rest of the Alliance cities, especially Rad as it was his first target, taking their weapons and armor would greatly benefit the war effort against the whores.

But then he heard that they were driven back... no, they are outright destroyed of whatever force that have encounter. He thought maybe the Eostian Shield Alliance began to be bolder and more united along with a competent tactician.

Then he heard it's an unknown army that did it, but he still couldn't know about them, other than the rumors of this new army from distant land, his first thought was to ally with them and share them the spoils with the women. Hell, he even planned to have whoever led this army to have permission to fuck Celestine and Olga, but as it gets longer and longer of their stay here, their stance begun to make it clear that they won't gonna join with them, especially that they have killed hundreds to thousands of his men and beasts under his command.

And especially that their leader is a dark skin man.

Then he heard of their attacks in Garan which was also a surprise him and another shock is how fast they are of reaching them in just mere few days.

And most of all, they appeared to have some burning hatred towards rape, which of what his men who survived their encounters witnessed it.

They told horror stories as they were burning them without remorse, hell there is some psychos among these strangers in weirdly dressed clothing to be laughing while burning his men.

Also another unlucky day for him, is Olga, Chloe, and her fellow Dark Elves manage to escape through a teleportation spell out from the Citadel.

Before he could speak and give command as the enemy is here now, he stopped when he suddenly heard a large amount of chopping noises all around the Citadel that which made him and his officers to look confuse.

"What's that noise?" Said Vult as he moved out from his throne to walk outside and see what cause of those noises are.

As he was about to open the door...

BOOM!!!

BOOM!!

BOOOOM!!!

The throne room shook. Dust rained from the ceiling. The main doors launched inward like they'd been kicked by a god.

Vult was thrown backward hard enough to slam into his own throne, breath leaving his body in a violent wheeze.

"W—What the fuck—" he started, groaning.

He didn't finish.

JCF troops poured in—helmets, goggles, rifles up—moving like a professional nightmare. Flashbangs cracked. Smoke rolled. The Black Dogs inside the room died or surrendered in seconds, their blades and arrogance made useless by speed and fire discipline.

An Indonesian Marine—eyes wide, grin feral—saw Vult trying to push himself up and surged forward like he'd found treasure.

"Kemarilah, jalang! Come here, bitch!" he yelled, raising his rifle like a club.

Vult's eyes flashed with rage. "What you called m—?!"

The buttstock hit the side of his head with a dull, final thunk.

Vult folded.

Lights out.

The Indonesian Marine stood over him breathing hard like he'd just won a championship. "Ha."

A Russian elf—Russian Army—walked up and looked down at the unconscious warlord with a slow smile.

"Grab his legs," the elf said calmly.

The Indonesian Marine blinked. "Uh—yes?"

They dragged Vult across the stone like dead weight.

Across his banners.

Across his pride.

Across his "empire."

A Marine—one of the ones who'd been sprinting and fighting since dawn—looked at the throne, then looked around like he was making a personal decision.

He unzipped.

A quick hiss of liquid hit black stone.

He sighed with relief.

Then, without shame, he muttered, "That's for every fucking village."

No one stopped him.

Because honestly?

Everyone understood.

Outside, the Black Citadel was still fighting.

Inside, its heart had already been ripped out.

Vult wasn't dead.

Not yet.

But the moment he hit that floor, the Black Dogs' war stopped being a war.

It became a cleanup operation.

And somewhere behind the lines, Olga Discordia sat with her freed people—exhausted, shaken, alive—watching the smoke over the citadel and realizing something she never thought she'd say:

Humans had saved her kingdom.

And the world was about to make sure it stayed saved.

Vult came to in fragments.

Stone scraping his back. Cold air biting his face. A pounding in his skull that made the world throb in time with his heartbeat. His wrists were zip-tied behind him so tight his hands went numb, and something—someone—was dragging him like a sack of rotten grain.

"Nggh—" he tried to growl.

A boot nudged his ribs mid-drag.

"Shut up," the Indonesian Marine said cheerfully, like he was talking to a loud dog. "You sleep. You sleep good."

Vult's eyes focused enough to see boots.

Too many boots.

Different boots.

Modern.

Not his.

He tried to twist his head—caught a glimpse of a pale-skinned elf in foreign camo, Russian flag patch and markings stitched side-by-side. The elf was dragging Vult by the ankles with the bored efficiency of someone moving furniture.

The elf glanced down, smirked like a demon, and spoke with a thick, rolling accent.

"Welcome back, king." He leaned closer, voice low. "You are... popular today."

The Indonesian Marine—still grinning—adjusted his grip and kept hauling. "Boss said bring you to the elves."

Vult's throat went tight. "Elves...? No. No, no—"

"Oh yes," the Russian elf said, enjoying every syllable. "Yes yes yes."

They passed through a corridor of Marines and soldiers sweeping the citadel—clearing rooms, kicking doors, shouting callouts.

"Left clear!"

"Stairs! Move!"

"Fuck, that's a lot of blood—keep moving!"

And then daylight hit them.

Outside the Citadel's shattered front, the recovery area was spread out like a controlled miracle: tents, triage lanes, supply pallets, medics kneeling beside freed Dark Elves still shaking with shock. URK units stood watch. Knights from allied kingdoms kept a nervous perimeter, staring at the sea of steel like it was a dragon made of metal.

The Russian elf and the Indonesian Marine dragged Vult straight toward the heart of it.

Right where the Dark Elves were recovering.

Right where the survivors could see him.

A ripple moved through the camp.

Heads turned.

Conversations died.

A silence gathered like a storm.

Olga was seated on a crate near the center, blanket over her shoulders, eyes distant—until she saw what was being dragged toward her.

Her expression didn't change much.

But the air around her did.

Chloe—standing behind her like a shield with blonde hair—went rigid. Her hand went to her sword.

Aiden's head snapped up immediately, and his voice sharpened on instinct.

"Chloe—don't."

Chloe didn't look away from Vult. "He's alive."

"Yeah," Aiden said, stepping slightly in front of her without realizing it. "For now."

The Russian elf stopped dragging. He let Vult's legs drop with a thud and crouched down so Vult could see his face.

He spoke loudly now, projecting across the camp like he was announcing a prize.

"HEY!" the elf called, grin widening. "DARK ELF PEOPLE!"

Dozens of eyes locked on him.

The elf hooked a thumb at the groaning, zip-tied warlord on the ground.

"This one?" He nudged Vult with his boot. "He is your problem now."

A low, ugly sound rolled through the Dark Elves—part rage, part disbelief, part hunger for justice.

Vult tried to pull himself backward, heels digging into dirt.

"No—listen—" he rasped. "We can talk. We can—"

The Indonesian Marine squatted and patted his cheek like a parent. "No talk."

Vult's eyes shot toward the line of senior leadership standing nearby—Anthony, David, Stepan, Rawlins, Wayne, the President in his private's uniform—people who could stop this with one word.

He saw their faces.

And then he saw the synchronized reaction.

The President looked sharply to his left like something fascinating had suddenly appeared on the horizon.

Anthony turned his head just enough to stare at the sky. "Huh," he muttered. "Nice weather."

David adjusted his gloves with exaggerated focus. "Damn," he said conversationally. "My goggles fogged. I can't see shit."

Stepan rubbed his jaw. "I am suddenly... blind."

Rawlins coughed into his fist. "What warlord? I don't see a warlord."

Wayne lifted a hand to his ear like he was listening to comms. "Comms are loud. Hard to hear crimes."

A few senior NCOs followed suit instantly, as if it was an official drill.

"I didn't witness nothin', sir."

"What's happening? I'm looking the other way."

"Must be a training exercise."

The knights—confused, horrified—glanced between the leadership and the Dark Elves.

Even they got the message.

A Ken knight whispered, pale-faced, "Is this... allowed?"

A URK Scout Ranker shrugged without taking his eyes off the perimeter. "Allowed? No."

He paused.

"Understandable? Yes."

That was all the permission the camp needed.

The Dark Elves started moving.

Slow at first—like they didn't trust reality.

Then faster—rage breaking into motion.

A woman with bruises on her wrists stepped forward, shaking so hard she could barely stand. Her eyes were dry. Too dry.

A man missing two fingers approached like he was walking toward an altar.

Someone spat.

It hit Vult's cheek.

He flinched like he'd been slapped.

"Please—" he croaked. "I'm a king—"

A boot drove into his ribs, not hard enough to crush, just hard enough to fold him.

"Shut your mouth," a Dark Elf man hissed.

Vult gasped.

Another spit landed on his forehead.

Someone else kicked dirt onto his face.

Chloe took one step forward, trembling, eyes burning, sword half out.

Aiden grabbed her wrist.

"Chloe," he said, voice low and hard. "No blades."

Chloe glared at him like she wanted to hate him for stopping her—and hated herself more for listening.

"...Fine," she whispered.

She stepped in close, crouched, and slapped Vult across the face so sharply his head snapped sideways.

Then she leaned near his ear, voice shaking.

"You don't get to touch anyone ever again."

Vult tried to speak.

Chloe slapped him again.

Then she stood, breathing hard, eyes bright with violent tears.

Olga rose.

The camp fell quiet again, like every Dark Elf remembered who she was the instant she moved.

She walked forward slowly, blanket slipping from her shoulders, her posture regal without armor. She looked down at Vult like he was something stuck to her boot.

"Vult," she said softly.

Vult's eyes widened. "Olga—your grace—listen, I can—"

Olga's smile was gentle.

That's what made it terrifying.

"You will live," she said.

The Dark Elves murmured—some in frustration, some in confusion.

Olga didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to.

"You will live until you tell us everything," she continued, eyes cold now. "Every route. Every stash. Every ally. Every 'right-hand' dog you used to do your filth."

Vult swallowed, trying to find the angle, the charm, the manipulation.

Olga leaned down slightly.

"And then," she whispered, so only he and the closest could hear, "you will learn what fear feels like when you can't hide behind your men."

She straightened, then glanced toward the JCF leadership still "not watching."

Anthony's head remained turned away, but his voice carried anyway—flat, final.

"Two rules," he called without looking. "No torture that makes you like him. And he stays alive until intel's extracted."

David added, still "blind," "If he dies early, I'm gonna be pissed. Do you know how much paperwork that is?"

A few Marines snorted.

A few Dark Elves actually laughed—short, harsh laughs that sounded like broken glass.

Olga lifted her hand.

"One minute," she said calmly. "One minute for my people to remember they're still alive."

Then she lowered her hand like a judge.

And the Dark Elves surged—not with blades, not with cruelty for sport, but with the raw, shaking need to do something to the monster who had almost owned their bodies and futures.

Fists. Boots. Open-handed strikes. Shouting in a language that sounded like thunder and grief.

Vult tried to curl into a ball.

He couldn't.

His hands were bound.

He took the blows, choking and sobbing, the sound humiliating and small.

And all around him, Marines and soldiers stared at the sky, checked their weapons, adjusted straps, and very professionally did not witness a damn thing.

At exactly one minute, Olga's voice cut through the fury—sharp as a blade.

"Enough."

It stopped.

Not because the rage was gone.

Because she was their queen.

The Russian elf hauled Vult up by his collar.

The Indonesian Marine grabbed the other side.

Vult's face was swollen, eyes wet, pride shattered into mud.

The Russian elf smiled down at him. "See?" he said pleasantly. "Community bonding."

Then he looked out at the camp—at the shaken survivors, at Chloe trembling, at Olga standing like a storm contained.

He raised his voice again, announcing with mock cheer:

"Congratulations! He is still breathing!"

A few Dark Elves hissed.

A few Marines muttered "Damn right."

And somewhere behind the line, the President quietly said—still not looking—

"Proceed."

They dragged Vult away toward a reinforced holding container being set up near the command post.

He left a trail in the dirt.

Not blood.

Not gore.

Just the mark of a man finally learning that the world doesn't always let monsters walk away.

And above them, the Black Citadel still burned—slowly, steadily—like the continent itself was exhaling.