Morning – November 27, 1639 – Dubai, United Arab Emirates
The sea was calm when the ship crossed into Emirati waters, but the air had changed.
It carried a different weight—dense, sharp, electrified. Even before they could see it, the delegation felt it. A hum. A pulse. Like the world ahead was running on invisible rails, and they were drifting into something impossibly precise.
Then the skyline came into view.
And the delegation of Parpaldia froze at the rails.
“Gods…” Remille muttered, breath catching.
They had seen towers before.
Runepolis rose like a marble hymn, etched in golden glyphs and ancient sigils. Esthirant bore its own majesty—cathedrals carved from magic-forged stone, spires glowing with arcane light that had shone through generations.
But this… this was different.
This wasn’t beauty. It was power made visible.
Out of the sea rose a city not built by kings or divine blessings, but by sheer, unrelenting will. It began as a shimmer on the horizon—a blur of steel and sunlight. Then, it surged into shape. Towers of glass reflected the sea like obsidian mirrors. Latticed beams crisscrossed the sky. Roads coiled like veins around the base of monolithic buildings stacked in layers, their sides glowing faint blue in the morning haze.
And then the Burj Khalifa breached the clouds.
It didn’t sit among the other buildings—it dominated them. One clean, obsidian spire, flaring upward so far it seemed to cut into the heavens themselves.
Remille stepped toward the railing, one hand gripping the polished edge of the deck. Her voice broke without ceremony.
“That’s… that’s not real.”
“It’s very real,” said Ambassador al-Faroun behind them, voice calm, almost smug. “The Burj Khalifa. The tallest structure on Earth.”
“How… tall?” Elto asked, almost to himself.
“Eight hundred twenty-eight meters,” al-Faroun replied casually. “No magic. No levitation. Just reinforced concrete. Steel. Glass. Human will.”
A silence passed through the delegation like a shared breath.
Kaios didn’t move. His eyes were locked on the spear of glass that sliced the horizon.
“It touches the sky…”
As the ship neared the dock, the sheer scale of the city became overwhelming. The harbor swallowed their ship whole, surrounded by piers that could host vessels three times its size. Cranes moved containers with mechanical grace, their arms swinging with the rhythm of a choreographed dance. Trucks rolled along marked lanes in perfect sequence, guided by signals and lights that shifted without a single hand raised.
Every building, every shadow, every angle seemed deliberate. Nothing was left to chance. Even the reflections on the waves were perfect.
Roads pulsed with thin bands of white light. The delegation stared, unsure if they were spells, runes, or something else entirely. Tower-sized advertisements blinked in sync: a perfume bottle rotating in slow arcs, a sandstorm frozen mid-motion, a sports car streaking across the desert. Strange letters scrolled beneath, as fluid as any incantation but with no mana behind them.
But none of it was illusion.
There was no enchantment. No runic trickery.
Just precision. Wealth. Dominance.
Remille’s voice cracked again.
“They built all this… with their hands.”
“They built all this,” Elto echoed, “without needing to pray to the gods.”
Behind them, the ambassador gave the final instruction.
“Prepare to disembark. You’ve been cleared for entry.”
And the gate to a new world opened.
The SUV convoy glided onto Sheikh Zayed Road like it belonged there. Parpaldia’s delegation sat in silence, their reflections in the tinted glass pale against the skyline of Dubai unfolding around them like a mechanical sun.
Palm trees lined the road in perfect symmetry, their trunks wrapped in lights that glowed faintly even in morning. Direction signs hung overhead in flawless script: Business Bay, Marina, Jumeirah. Each exit sounded like a city of its own, larger than any capital Parpaldia had known.
Then the first sound came.
A sharp growl. Metallic, guttural. Alive.
A McLaren 720S screamed past in a blur of silver, the engine crackling like fire chained to steel. A heartbeat later, a matte black Lamborghini Urus thundered by, tires hissing as they gripped the asphalt. Two Rolls-Royce Cullinans followed, gliding as if the road itself bent for them.
Remille dug her nails into the leather armrest. “Are they racing?”
“No,” al-Faroun said without looking. “They’re commuting.”
Elto leaned forward, eyes wide. “What kind of beasts are these?”
“Machines,” the ambassador answered. “Built for speed, for display. They are not only transport. They are symbols.”
Symbols of wealth. Of freedom. Of strength that needed no blessing from heaven.
The G-Wagon carrying them was smooth, quiet, its cabin sealed from the roar outside. But the world beyond the glass was alive. Deep engines rumbled like thunder rolling in intervals. V8s snarled at red lights, then slid forward as if obeying some unseen conductor. From side alleys, another Lamborghini would emerge, polished like obsidian, stalking the road like a predator.
“They don’t hide their wealth,” Kaios whispered. “They wear it louder than armor.”
They passed a showroom of glass. Behind it sat three Bugattis, polished so perfectly they seemed carved from gemstones. One bore a small sign: $3.2 million.
Remille stared, lips pressed tight.
The road curved past two skyscrapers under construction. Holographic banners floated on cranes, showing visions of five-star hotels yet unfinished: The Peninsula, Atlantis The Royal, Waldorf Astoria. Below, men in neon vests drank water from plastic bottles that chilled themselves.
“Why aren’t they sweating?” Elto asked, confused.
“Air-conditioned scaffolding,” al-Faroun replied. “And hydration systems. Here, time is money. Heat is no excuse.”
The words hit harder than any display of wealth.
No mana. No ice wards. No spells. Just machines, and logic, and will.
The convoy slowed as it passed a row of malls that dwarfed palaces. People crossed streets without fear, guided by signals that stopped traffic with colored lights. Families strolled in spotless clothes. Women carried designer bags, their eyes shielded by dark glasses. Men in white thobes walked with the same confidence as generals on parade.
Parpaldia’s envoys shrank inside their seats. They did not belong here.
Dubai Mall rose ahead, but calling it a mall felt wrong.
It was a fortress of glass, towering higher than Esthirant’s palace, its sides gleaming as waterfalls cascaded indoors. Its walls carried shifting lights, colors bending across their surface like magic—only it wasn’t.
The lot before it was a forest of luxury vehicles. Bentleys, Maybachs, and Bugattis stood in silent rows, each guarded by suited men who carried themselves like courtiers. Engines purred quietly, others waited cold, gleaming under the desert sun.
Kaios leaned forward, squinting.
“All of Esthirant’s markets could fit inside… and still there would be room for the palace.”
Elto’s voice was softer.
“And they don’t even trade with coin.”
“Digital banking,” al-Faroun said. “Transactions clear in seconds. No weight. No paper. No fraud.”
Remille blinked hard. At the entrance, two children in bright shirts dashed through the arch, laughing, each with a strange device dangling from their necks.
“And if that breaks?” she asked.
“They get another,” al-Faroun replied smoothly. “There are always more.”
The convoy rolled on. Boutiques lined the way—Burberry, Dior, Armani—each guarded by glass walls and flashing screens showing live feeds from Milan and Seoul. The delegation caught glimpses of indoor aquariums, art galleries, restaurants floating above walkways of steel and glass. A machine, painted gold, sat embedded in a wall, dispensing bars of precious metal at the push of a button.
Inside, the people were worse than the machines.
A man adjusted his Rolex beneath a billboard for the same brand. A woman walked by in black heels, a phone pressed to her ear, switching languages without pause. A family of tourists guided no luggage—their suitcases trailed behind them on their own, following like pets.
And no one looked at the Parpaldians. Not once.
The delegation sat in silence, shadows in a land that did not see them.
Remille finally broke it.
“We’re relics. We left home as leaders… but here, we walk like ghosts.”
By late morning, the convoy veered off the main highway and entered a high-security district shielded from the rest of Dubai.
The roar of the city faded behind them — the growl of engines, the clatter of cranes, the hum of endless traffic. In its place came something stranger. Silence. Not the silence of emptiness, but one carefully arranged, pressed flat by design.
The streets here were flawless. Palm trees lined both sides, trimmed into the same exact shape, their leaves fanning out at identical angles. The sidewalks were stone, polished until they gleamed. Silver lines ran through them, glowing faintly in the sunlight, pulsing with some hidden energy. Even the grass looked too even, too green, as though someone had combed it blade by blade.
The buildings were different from the glass towers of downtown. White, square, and still, their edges cut sharp against the sky. Each one sat apart from the others, surrounded by hedges trimmed to military precision, pools that reflected like mirrors, gardens where nothing seemed out of place. Even nature here obeyed the same order.
The Parpaldians shifted in their seats. No one spoke.
At the first checkpoint, cameras pivoted on smooth mounts, lenses glinting in the sun. The devices followed the convoy silently, their movements eerily precise. Guards stood nearby, weapons slung at their sides, uniforms pressed to perfection. They did not shout or posture like soldiers back home. They didn’t need to. Their stillness was more intimidating than any display of force.
Thermal scanners swept across the vehicles as they passed. Small flashes of red light danced briefly over the Parpaldians’ faces, gone before they could react.
The lead SUV slowed before a tall white building with wide marble steps. Above its entrance, a UAE flag rippled in the dry wind — red, green, white, and black standing bold against the sky.
“This will be your residence during your diplomatic mission,” Ambassador al-Faroun said as he stepped out, his voice carrying no weight of ceremony. He gestured lightly toward the structure. “Welcome.”
The Parpaldians hesitated, then followed. Their boots met cool marble, each step echoing louder than they wanted. At the top, the great doors parted without anyone touching them. They split open with a soft hiss, metal sliding against hidden rails.
No servants. No hinges. No push required.
The building had recognized them.
Kaios frowned as he paused at the threshold. “There are no guards inside?”
Al-Faroun smiled faintly. “It doesn’t need them.”
Inside, the air shifted at once.
A perfect balance — cool, clean, steady. Not too cold, not too dry. Lights came on by themselves as the delegation entered, bright but soft, following their movement step by step. No lanterns, no sconces, no candles. The walls themselves glowed with a quiet certainty.
The entrance hall opened into a wide lobby. Chairs with steel legs and leather seats stood arranged neatly around black-tinted tables. The walls were bare of paintings, but shapes of light danced across them, changing every few seconds — abstract designs, landscapes, even moving portraits.
A screen larger than a city banner blinked on. Words scrolled across the bottom as images shifted rapidly — wars in strange lands, meetings in crowded cities, numbers moving faster than any scribe’s hand could follow. A woman’s voice read through it all in a language none of them understood.
Remille turned in slow circles, hands brushing her robe as if she feared she might break something. The place felt like a shrine, but one without priests.
On the far wall, a tall machine hissed softly. A single green light blinked.
Kaios stepped forward and pressed it without thinking. A cup dropped into place. Steam rose. Black liquid poured in. The machine beeped once.
No spell. No mage. No servant.
Al-Faroun’s voice was steady. “An automated refreshment station. You choose, it provides. Heat, flavor, size, all controlled.”
Remille stepped close, eyes narrow. “How do you tell it what you want?”
“There’s an app.” He held up his phone.
The word meant nothing to them.
Through another doorway lay a garden. Stones in perfect patterns. A stream of clear water flowing through glass channels, looping endlessly back into itself. Birds rested on feeders that rotated with the sun.
“Mana spring?” Elto asked.
Al-Faroun shook his head. “Pump, purifier, controller. Nothing more.”
Elto stared at the stream, uneasy. Even their rivers were artificial.
The delegation stood in the center of the common hall, silent now. Al-Faroun spoke briefly to a local aide, leaving them to themselves.
The silence pressed in heavier than the noise outside.
No magic lamps. No runic seals. No guards in waiting. No statues of ancestors or saints. Nothing familiar.
And yet, everything worked. Everything obeyed.
Air flowed smoothly from vents, cool but silent. The walls glowed with light without flame. Even the smallest thing seemed arranged to serve its purpose with no flaw.
Kaios removed his coat slowly, laying it across a chair that looked as though it had never been used.
“They’ve built all this,” Elto whispered, “without magic.”
“Without kings,” Kaios said.
Remille’s voice was the lowest, almost bitter. “Without god.”
The words lingered in the air like smoke.
Elto moved toward the massive screen, watching as it flickered between images. A woman read at impossible speed, charts rising and falling behind her, names of cities flashing by: Tokyo, Paris, Washington. Maps shifted to distant wars, then to celebrations, then to markets filled with numbers that made no sense.
He felt dizzy.
They trade faster than scribes can write.
They build faster than we can dream.
Their rulers wear no crowns, yet command more than emperors.
A second screen showed an airport. Dozens of strange birds of metal glided across runways. Some rose into the air, some landed, others moved in perfect lines without hesitation. No magic circles. No teleport arrays. Just fire, fuel, and steel.
Kaios sat on the edge of a long couch, staring into the distance. “We left a world behind,” he said quietly. “And found a future that doesn’t need us.”
Remille stood by the window, the sun streaming over the stone tiles. Her voice was faint, almost breaking. “They don’t just outmatch us. They’ve forgotten we even mattered.”
No one argued.
No one could.
The room was silent, the kind of silence that burrowed deep and would not leave.
Outside, a jet screamed across the sky. Too far to see, but near enough to remind them.
This was Earth’s world now.
And Parpaldia had two choices: evolve… or vanish.
22:45 local time – November 28, 1639 – Northwest woodland ridge, 1.2 km from Fort Lécuyer, Parpaldia Empire
The night was cold, the air heavy with the scent of pine and damp earth. A thin mist clung to the forest floor, muffling distant sounds. The dark outline of Fort Lécuyer, with its stone walls and central castle, loomed in the distance, its warm yellow lights faint against the overcast sky.
Seven figures emerged from the treeline, moving in tight formation, each one clad in black tactical gear, helmets topped with dual-tube night vision. They were armed and poised — killers in the dark.
Al-Harith, the team leader, halted and raised his fist. The group froze, lowering their breathing. He scanned the ridge ahead, the faint hum of drone rotors blending into the whisper of the forest.
"Remember," Al-Harith growled in Arabic, his voice low but dripping with venom, "these Parpaldian dogs think they are masters. They sell your brothers as laborers. They touch your women. Tonight, we take their pride and bleed it onto the cobblestones."
Farouq smirked under his balaclava. "And we show them that even their forest cannot hide them from Allah’s wrath."
From the rear, Basil tightened the sling on his AK-74. "I want at least ten dead before we leave," he muttered, "They call us animals. I will show them how an animal kills."
The marksmen, Khalid and Nadir, said nothing. They adjusted their suppressed rifles, optics glowing faint green in the NVG’s lens. Their role was silent death.
Imran knelt in the damp leaves, unpacking his compact recon drone. The whir of the rotors spun up softly. He sent it low over the treetops, avoiding the open sky to limit detection. On his wrist-mounted screen, the glowing thermal outlines of two Parpaldian guards appeared, standing near a checkpoint along the outer road. Both had rifles slung casually, unaware of the eyes watching them.
"Two sentries, southeast corner," Imran reported in clipped Arabic. "Another patrol moving east to west along the north wall. Rotation every five minutes."
Al-Harith nodded. "Khalid, Nadir — take them when they cross the shadow gap. No noise. No mistakes."
They moved. The team’s boots sank softly into the damp forest loam, every step deliberate. The castle’s stone silhouette grew sharper with each meter. A cold wind swept through the trees, carrying the faint metallic tang of oil and steel from the Parpaldian armory inside.
Khalid settled behind a moss-covered log, adjusting his PSO-1 scope until the crosshair centered on the first sentry’s head. Subsonic 7.62mm round chambered. Breath in. Breath out. The suppressor coughed, a muted pop lost to the wind. The guard’s head jerked, body folding silently into the grass.
Across the treeline, Nadir mirrored the motion. Another muffled shot. Another Parpaldian collapsed without a sound.
"Two down," Nadir whispered. "Path is open."
Al-Harith didn’t look back. "Good. Their blood is the first offering tonight."
They advanced, crossing the dirt road and slipping into the shadow between the lampposts. In the distance, the faint buzz of a Parpaldian recon drone passed overhead, but the team hugged the wall, invisible beneath the tree canopy’s shadow.
The next phase was close. Inside those castle walls was the shipment schedule, guarded by men who had no idea death was already moving through their city.
Al-Harith keyed his radio. "We breach in ten. Be ready to spill every drop of infidel blood if they block the way."
The outer patrol was gone, their bodies hidden beneath the brush. The ISIS Special Forces now crouched beneath the north wall, the cold stone slick with dew. Above, the faint orange glow of oil lamps marked the parapet.
Al-Harith gestured to Yusuf, the team’s breacher. The man knelt and unpacked a compact satchel charge, wrapping the det cord around the iron postern gate. His hands moved with surgical precision, his face hidden behind black goggles.
"We go in quiet if we can," Yusuf muttered in Arabic, "but if we cannot, we go in loud and fast."
Basil grinned under his mask. "I hope for loud."
The charge went off with a controlled thump, a pressure wave rolling through the damp night air. The gate’s lock and hinges disintegrated, the door sagging inward. No alarm yet. The Parpaldian guards on this side had not heard the muted breach.
Farouq slipped in first, rifle shouldered, barrel sweeping each corner. A faint glow from the barracks windows illuminated rows of parked military trucks in the courtyard. Somewhere inside, boots scraped against stone — two soldiers talking in lazy tones.
They would not speak for long.
Farouq approached the doorway, yanked it open, and fired two suppressed bursts. The first guard dropped instantly, the second clutching his throat as blood pooled at his boots.
Khalid and Nadir moved to overwatch positions, their suppressed sniper rifles scanning for any sudden movement in the open square.
"Clear," Farouq whispered.
The team fanned out, keeping low. Imran checked his wrist display again. Three warm outlines were moving toward the outer gate — possibly a changing patrol.
Al-Harith gave no order to avoid them. "Kill them," he said flatly.
They waited behind a parked truck. The patrol rounded the corner, rifles slung casually, one smoking a cigarette. In the darkness, they never saw the black shapes step forward. Suppressed shots spat in rapid sequence. All three Parpaldians dropped without even a shout, their cigarettes glowing dimly as they hit the cobblestones.
Basil kicked one of the corpses over, spitting on it. "Filthy slave-masters."
They moved again, hugging the shadow of the inner wall. The castle loomed closer now, its stained glass windows faintly illuminated from inside. Somewhere in there, behind those stone walls, was the operations office — and the sealed locker containing the UAE–Saudi shipment schedule.
Yusuf whispered over comms. "Two guards at the west door, light kit, AKs."
"Take them alive," Al-Harith ordered suddenly. "We need another mouth to spill more secrets."
The squad moved in a half-circle. Farouq stepped out of the shadows, firing a quick double tap into one guard’s leg before slamming him into the wall. The second reached for his rifle, but Yusuf’s suppressed shot punched through his knee, dropping him screaming to the ground.
The captured guard was dragged behind the wall, hands bound with zip ties. Basil crouched, pulling the man’s head up by the hair. "Do you know what your empire did to my people?" he hissed in accented Parpaldian. "Tonight, you pay the debt."
The soldier’s eyes darted between them, shaking.
Al-Harith leaned in close. "Your HQ will burn before sunrise."
The man spat in his face. Basil’s answer was a quick strike with the rifle butt, splitting the guard’s eyebrow open.
Farouq keyed the radio. "Perimeter secure. Inner gate is ours."
From here, the road to the castle’s HQ was open — but Parpaldian drone patrols were now sweeping the southern yard. The team would have to time their move perfectly or risk being pinned in the courtyard.
The muffled calm broke with a single mistake.
Farouq, aiming at a sentry crossing the courtyard, sent a three-round suppressed burst center mass. The guard dropped, but his AK-47 clattered across the cobblestones. The sound echoed under the stone archways.
A sharp whistle split the air. Then shouting. Boots pounding against the parade ground. A horn sounded from the ramparts.
The castle was awake.
"Contact, north yard!" a Parpaldian voice barked. The deep clang of the alarm bell followed, vibrating through the entire compound.
Al-Harith spat into the dirt. "So be it. Rush the HQ. We kill every one of them in our path."
Khalid and Nadir, still perched on overwatch, shifted to rapid fire. Their suppressed sniper rifles became precision battle rifles, dropping advancing shapes at the edge of the courtyard. Each shot made Parpaldian troops dive for cover, but more kept coming.
Basil slung his rifle, grabbed a flashbang from his vest, and hurled it toward the castle steps. It popped, the blinding light cutting through the darkness. Two guards screamed, clutching their faces, and Al-Harith’s team surged forward.
Tracer rounds lit up from the parapets. Drones buzzed overhead, tiny but deadly. A metallic whine, then one drone opened fire with a 7.62mm rotary gun, splintering wood from the supply carts.
"Drone left! Take it down!" Yusuf shouted.
Farouq raised his rifle, the suppressor now useless, and let off a deafening burst. The drone jerked mid-air and spiraled into the ground, exploding in a shower of sparks.
But the noise drew more fire. Parpaldian soldiers in green kits poured from the barracks, AK-47s barking. Muzzle flashes strobed along the walls. The team scattered, using parked vehicles for cover.
"Push right, get to the west stairs!" Al-Harith roared.
The captured guard from earlier was shoved ahead as a meat shield. Bullets ripped through him in seconds, his body collapsing into the mud.
They reached the base of the west staircase, but three Parpaldian troops were dug in behind sandbags. One lobbed a grenade.
"Grenade!" Yusuf dove behind a pillar as the blast shook the stonework, showering the team with dust and rock chips.
Khalid took the lead, rising from cover and sending a volley into the sandbags. One defender slumped forward, another screamed as a round shattered his shoulder.
The staircase was theirs.
"Up! Now!" Al-Harith ordered.
They bounded up the stone steps two at a time. Inside, the corridors twisted like a maze, but the map from the captured officer was burned into Al-Harith’s mind.
They kicked in the door to the operations room. Inside, three Parpaldian officers froze mid-argument, their hands hovering near their sidearms.
Basil didn’t give them a chance. "Allahu Akbar!" he bellowed, cutting them down in a spray of automatic fire.
The intel cabinet sat against the far wall. Yusuf planted a charge on the lock, blasting it open. Inside were stacks of files, maps, and sealed envelopes marked with foreign stamps.
Al-Harith grabbed the one marked UAE–Saudi Shipment – October Manifest.
"We have it," he said over comms. "Now we burn this place."
The first flames began to lick the wood beams of the operations office. Smoke curled against the high stone ceiling, the glow of burning documents casting jagged shadows across the walls.
"Intel secured," Al-Harith said into his comms, voice taut. "We move now. West gate exfil."
The squad filed out, rifles sweeping, boots crunching on glass. The courtyard below was no longer the quiet kill zone they had breached. It was a hornet’s nest.
Parpaldia’s 4th Ground Forces had mobilized fast. Squads in green military kit were already pouring into the inner yard from every angle. Their movements were disciplined, nothing like the disorganized militias ISIS was used to cutting down. They hugged cover, communicated with hand signals, and advanced in coordinated bounding overwatch pairs.
A voice crackled over loudspeakers in clipped Parpaldian. They weren’t shouting orders blindly — they were guiding units into kill zones, just like Saudi advisors had drilled into them.
"They’re trying to box us in," Imran warned, eyes scanning the rooftops. "Ambush patterns."
"Break them," Al-Harith snapped.
The team descended the staircase, but halfway down, Khalid froze. Through his NVGs, he caught the faint shimmer of tripwires strung between the pillars.
"Booby traps. Claymores," he whispered.
Farouq knelt, inspecting the wires. These weren’t crude mines — they were expertly placed, with interlocking blast arcs that would shred anyone rushing down.
"We go around," Al-Harith decided. "North balcony."
They cut across a side hall, bursting through a set of wooden doors into the cold night air. The balcony overlooked the outer yard, the west gate visible beyond a line of sandbagged machine gun nests. The problem was, those nests were now manned by Parpaldian gunners — and they were waiting.
A spotlight snapped on, blinding them. The first burst of 7.62mm tracers stitched the balcony rail. Splinters flew. Basil ducked, returning fire in long, punishing bursts that forced the gunners down.
"Marksmen, cover!" Al-Harith barked.
Khalid and Nadir leaned over the balcony’s stone lip, dropping two machine gunners with precise headshots. The Parpaldian squad behind them scattered for new cover.
"Move!"
They jumped down from the balcony into a small garden, landing hard but uninjured. Footsteps pounded nearby — two Parpaldian fireteams flanking fast.
The first team came in from the left, rifles raised. Farouq dropped one with a burst, but the second dived behind a planter and returned fire, forcing him back. From the right, another squad threw smoke grenades, the thick gray cloud swirling in the lamplight.
"They’re using the smoke to close in!" Imran shouted.
A shape lunged out of the haze — a bayonet slashing. Basil caught the rifle with his left hand and slammed the butt of his own weapon into the attacker’s jaw. The man crumpled, but gunfire erupted from the smoke immediately after.
Nadir screamed, clutching his side. Blood poured between his fingers. Khalid dragged him behind a stone bench, but another burst of gunfire shredded the cover.
"Nadir’s hit bad!" Khalid yelled.
Al-Harith’s jaw tightened. "Leave him. We keep moving."
Khalid hesitated — long enough for a Parpaldian round to punch through Nadir’s helmet, ending the argument.
"Allah receive you, brother," Basil muttered, then they were moving again.
They pushed toward the west gate, but a machine gun nest pinned them down from 60 meters. The gunner’s tracers tore through the hedges, rounds snapping past their helmets.
"Marksman shot won’t get through — plate glass shield!" Khalid growled.
"Breacher!" Al-Harith ordered.
Yusuf sprinted forward under covering fire, tossing a fragmentation grenade over the sandbags. The blast silenced the gunner, and the squad vaulted the wreckage, spilling into the outer street.
But the street wasn’t empty.
Parpaldian troops had set up an L-shaped ambush along the narrow cobblestones, using burning carts as both barriers and light sources. As soon as the ISIS team entered the kill zone, gunfire erupted from two directions.
Parpaldia’s 4th Ground Forces had mobilized fast. Squads in green military kit were already pouring into the inner yard from every angle. Their movements were disciplined, nothing like the disorganized militias ISIS was used to cutting down. They hugged cover, communicated with hand signals, and advanced in coordinated bounding overwatch pairs.
These were not ordinary conscripts. They were the product of months of intensive training under Saudi military instructors, hardened through joint exercises, and fluent in modern battlefield doctrine.
A voice crackled over loudspeakers in clipped Parpaldian. They weren’t shouting orders blindly — they were guiding units into kill zones, just as their Gulf trainers had drilled into them.
Basil took a round through the thigh and went down, firing wildly in return. Imran dropped to a knee, sending his last drone into the air. Through the feed, he saw more troops closing from the north alley.
"We’re surrounded," Imran said. "We have to punch through now."
Al-Harith nodded, ripping a smoke grenade from his vest. "We go through the weakest point — east flank. Marksman, cover. Everyone else, fire and move!"
They executed with brutal precision. Khalid’s shots cracked through the night, dropping targets even in the shifting smoke. Farouq and Yusuf sprayed suppression into the upper windows while Al-Harith dragged Basil by his vest.
The push cost them.
A burst from the alley tore through Imran’s chest plate. He staggered, coughing blood, then collapsed. Khalid shot the alleyman, but Imran was gone before they reached him.
"Two down," Basil gritted. "We need to move faster."
They broke into the eastern lane, firing at every shadow, kicking down doors as they ran. Behind them, the Parpaldians regrouped, their voices carrying sharp and coordinated commands — cutting off side streets, sealing potential escape routes.
Every hundred meters, another gunfight.
By the time they reached the northern woodland edge, the surviving four were bleeding, exhausted, and low on ammo. The castle was now fully engulfed in flames, sirens wailing across Fort Lécuyer.
As they reached the treeline, Khalid stopped and looked back. The glow of the burning HQ reflected in his NVGs, silhouetting the disciplined lines of Parpaldian troops pushing into the outer streets.
"Next time, they won’t be so lucky," he muttered.
Al-Harith slapped the UAE–Saudi shipment manifest against his chest rig. "We lost three, but the mission is complete. That’s enough."
Behind them, the forest swallowed their retreat, leaving Fort Lécuyer to count its dead and plan its revenge.
02:10 Local Time – September 29, 1639 – Fort Lécuyer
Inside the dimly lit war room of Fort Lécuyer’s temporary HQ, the atmosphere was tense but controlled. Maps lay spread across a long oak table, their edges held down with spent shell casings and half-empty coffee mugs. The faint smell of smoke from the earlier fire still clung to the air, mixing with the metallic tang of gun oil.
Colonel Renard Duval stood at the head of the table, arms folded. His green kit still bore streaks of soot and dried mud from the night’s fighting. Around him sat senior NCOs and two Saudi-trained tactical advisors, their desert camouflage looking stark against Parpaldia’s woodland gear.
"We lost the intel cabinet," Duval said flatly, scanning the faces around the table. "But they did not escape without paying for it. Three of their black-clad raiders are dead, and the rest bled heavily. Their infiltration was fast, but our countermeasures forced them into open streets where we could cut them down."
One of the Saudi advisors, Captain Fahd al-Hariri, leaned forward. "Your troops executed the bounding flank perfectly. If they had been slower by ten seconds, you would have trapped them completely."
"We will not be ten seconds slow next time," Duval replied. "Increase sentry rotations, double UAV coverage on all approaches. And send word to Esthirant — the intel they stole concerns incoming aid shipments."
There was a pause. The room stayed quiet for a heartbeat too long. Then a young intelligence officer, Lieutenant Claire Vautrin, cleared her throat.
"Sir… about that intel."
Duval’s eyes narrowed. "Go on."
"The cabinet they breached wasn’t the primary archive. What they took was a prepared set of documents — deliberately left where an infiltrator would find them. All of it is fabricated."
Fahd looked over sharply. "Fabricated? You’re telling me they fought that hard for nothing?"
Claire nodded. "The real shipment manifests are secured in an underground facility beneath this fort, in a reinforced vault. Access requires both my clearance and the Colonel’s. The location of that vault has never been on any physical map."
Duval’s mouth tightened into a faint smile. "We fed them exactly what we wanted them to believe. They’ll waste men and time chasing decoy convoys while the real shipments move under different routes and escorts."
Another advisor, Major Hassan al-Mutairi, tapped the table with a gloved finger. "That means they will be aggressive in the coming days. The moment they realize it’s false, they’ll be looking for retribution. And when they come back, they’ll come heavier."
"Let them," Duval said. "Now we know their methods, their equipment, even their faces. We’ll be ready for them. And next time, we won’t be content with three bodies — we’ll wipe out the whole unit."
The room went silent again, the weight of the coming fight settling on every man and woman present. Outside, the first gray light of dawn began creeping over the forested hills, illuminating the scarred stone walls of Fort Lécuyer. The battle had been costly, but in Duval’s mind, the war had just turned in their favor.
03:42 Local Time – September 29, 1639 – ISIS Forward Operating Base – Northern Frontier
The surviving four members of Operation Black Crescent trudged into the muddy courtyard of the hidden FOB. Their black tactical kits were streaked with grime, and their helmets hung loose around sweat-soaked faces. The bodies of Nadir, Imran, and Qadir were laid out under a sheet of black cloth, the edges weighed down with rifle magazines. A few silent fighters stood watch, their breath visible in the cold pre-dawn air.
No one spoke as they entered the main command tent. Inside, the air was stale with cigarette smoke and the low hum of a generator. A ruggedized field terminal sat on a crate, its green standby light blinking. The communications officer tapped a key, and the screen came alive with static before resolving into the grainy feed of Westin Muhammad.
His image filled the display — the trademark black scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, his weathered face partly shadowed. In the background, faint chanting drifted in from some unseen rally.
"You’re alive," Westin began, his tone deceptively calm. His eyes flicked over the squad, counting silently. "Three of you are not."
Al-Harith lowered his gaze for a moment. "They fought hard, commander. The Parpaldian dogs did not make it easy."
Westin’s expression didn’t change. "I trained them myself. I told them where to place their feet, when to squeeze the trigger, how to turn the enemy’s breath into silence." He exhaled slowly, the sound harsh in the tinny speakers. "And now they lie dead. That is the price of war… but it is still a price I feel."
Al-Harith stepped forward, producing a waterproof satchel and placing it in view of the camera. "The intel is here. UAE–Saudi shipment manifest, October route."
Westin’s eyes sharpened. "Then you have succeeded."
The squad looked relieved, but Westin’s mind was already running two layers deeper. He leaned in, lowering his voice to the cold tone he used only for orders that could not be questioned.
"Listen carefully. Those containers will not reach Esthirant intact. As long as they move, they can be struck. We will hit them before they are unloaded — make it look like the convoy was the main prize."
Farouq raised an eyebrow. "Make it look?"
A small, humorless smile pulled at the corner of Westin’s mouth. "Because while they rush to guard their precious cargo, our true strike will be somewhere else — the Imperial Palace in Ludius itself. The Emperor will be executed before his own guards."
Basil muttered, "A death for Saint-Boyeux."
"A death for every village they burned, every slave they sold, every child they starved," Westin said, his voice swelling into the same cadence he used in his public speeches.
The surviving operatives stood taller, their earlier exhaustion replaced by grim resolve.
"You will rest for now," Westin concluded. "Then prepare. Within days, we begin the hunt for the convoy — and the road to Esthirant will be written in blood."
The feed went dark.
What they didn’t know — what Westin didn’t intend for them to know — was that he already suspected the documents were false. The handwriting was too perfect, the seals too new, the route too obvious. In his private chamber, far from any listening ears, Westin kept another map, marked with his own intelligence sources. It told a different story of where the real shipments might be.
And for that, he would need an even deadlier plan… one that didn’t require every man in Operation Black Crescent to live long enough to see it.
