Story 690: Ashes of the Fallen

The explosion ripped through the battlefield, sending dirt, blood, and fire into the air. Sergeant Darius "Hellhound" Rook was thrown backward, his ears ringing as he hit the ground hard. Smoke and debris clouded his vision, and for a moment, everything was silent—too silent.

Then, a low growl cut through the chaos.

Kruger still stood.

His uniform was in tatters, flesh burned and torn, yet his monstrous frame remained unshaken. His eyes—one human, one glowing with necrotic energy—locked onto Rook with unholy rage. The grenade had wounded him, but not enough.

Rook staggered to his feet, his hands shaking. This was it. He had thrown everything at Kruger, and the warlord was still standing.

"You're persistent," Kruger muttered, wiping the blood from his mouth. "But not smart."

Vasily Petrov lay in the dirt, his breathing ragged. His shattered wrist dangled uselessly, yet even as pain wracked his body, he tried to push himself up. "Rook... we have to go."