Story 665: The Ghost of War

The sky was a deep shade of crimson, the sun setting behind the war-torn horizon. Smoke curled from burning wreckage, the acrid scent of death and gunpowder thick in the air. General Viktor "Bloodfang" Kruger stood atop the ruined remains of a rebel outpost, his expression unreadable, his crimson beret barely shifting in the evening breeze. His black tactical vest bore fresh scratches, his dog tags clinking softly against his chest as he surveyed the destruction before him.

The battle had been swift, brutal. Just as he had intended.

Kruger’s grip tightened around his modified combat pistol, its barrel still warm from the massacre. A low groan echoed nearby. He turned sharply, his piercing gaze falling on a wounded resistance fighter crawling toward a discarded rifle. The man's fingers trembled as they reached for the weapon.

Kruger sighed.

Fool.