Chapter 8 - PHANTOMS AND STEEL

Southern Military Base – Central Command Sector – 04:01 AM

Sergeant Varen's patience had snapped.

The command center was a cacophony of shouting voices, overlapping orders, and the frantic clatter of keyboards. Officers scrambled for answers, soldiers rushed between stations, and the screens flickered with static-riddled footage from the battlefield.

But the truth was obvious.

They were blind.

And the enemy was already here.

Varen slammed his fist onto the metal table. "Where the hell are my field reports? Someone tell me what's happening—NOW!"

A junior officer, pale with sweat, fumbled at his console. "S-Sir, we've lost contact with the entire south perimeter! The comms relay is offline, and—"

BOOM.

The floor trembled.

The walls groaned under the shockwave.

A second explosion followed—closer.

Then a third.

Red emergency lights flooded the room as a piercing alarm blared through the speakers.

A tech officer let out a strangled breath. "Oh my God—sir, we have movement at the southern barricade!"

Varen turned sharply. "Numbers?"

The officer's hands shook as he read the sensor data.

"…T-Three hundred. At least."

Varen's blood ran cold.

"Impossible," he growled.

Another officer gasped, pointing at the flickering screens. "There—look!"

The static-ridden feed struggled to maintain focus, but through the interference, they saw them.

Figures.

Dozens. No—hundreds.

Dark shapes surged through the smoke like a tide, darting between cover, moving with precision. The muzzle flashes of their weapons burned like fireflies in the mist. Bullets shrieked through the air, slamming into steel and flesh alike.

Varen's heart pounded.

This wasn't some ragtag Resistance force.

This was an army.

Private Erik Dalen's rifle rattled against his shoulder as he fired blindly into the mist.

He wasn't even sure what he was aiming at anymore.

The smoke was everywhere, thick and suffocating, rolling in waves across the battlefield. Silhouettes moved within it—dark, shifting figures, their bodies outlined in eerie flickers of light.

They were everywhere.

Gunfire roared from all directions.

Screams cut through the chaos—short, panicked, snuffed out as quickly as they came. The barricades trembled under the relentless assault. Erik caught glimpses of men being cut down—one took a round to the throat and collapsed, gurgling. Another fell as bullets riddled his torso, blood spraying across the concrete.

"Hold the line!" his captain bellowed.

Erik's fingers ached from gripping his rifle too hard. His breath came in ragged gasps.

They couldn't hold.

Not against this.

He saw shadows rushing between cover, impossibly fast, weaving through the storm of bullets.

A soldier beside him screamed as his chest exploded in a burst of blood—shot clean through the heart. Another was thrown backward as a round punched through his skull.

Erik's ears rang.

Something was wrong.

They had the numbers. They had the position.

So why were they losing so fast?

He forced himself to focus. His rifle snapped up, sights locked onto one of the moving figures.

He fired.

The bullet flew straight into the enemy's chest—

—and passed right through.

Erik's breath hitched.

The figure didn't flinch.

For a split second, its body distorted—like a flickering screen.

No.

No, no, no.

He fired again. Another shot. Another clean hit.

Nothing.

His stomach twisted violently.

"C-Captain—" His voice barely rose over the gunfire. "Something's wrong! They're not—"

Then, through the chaos, another soldier shouted.

"THEY'RE NOT REAL!"

The words spread like wildfire.

A ripple of horror passed through the defending troops. Soldiers hesitated, their fingers slackening on triggers, their eyes darting wildly.

Varen heard the cries over the radio, his knuckles turning white.

"What do you mean they're not real?" he snapped.

Static. Then—

"Their bullets are real, but they're not! We're—WE'RE SHOOTING AT GHOSTS!"

Varen's breath froze.

Then the battlefield truly collapsed.

A soldier let out a ragged scream and broke formation, bolting toward the rear line. Another followed.

Panic spread like infection.

More men turned, running, breaking ranks. Some kept firing, but their shots were wild, desperate—aimed at shadows that didn't fall.

And then—

The real attack began.

From behind them.

From the flanks.

From the very direction they thought was safe.

Kael exhaled slowly, fingers curling around the grips of his twin pistols.

"Now."

Allen moved first.

Gunfire erupted—sharp, precise, lethal.

Men dropped like stones, cut down before they even knew what was happening.

Kael's squad had breached from the east, their silenced rounds carving through the confused soldiers like a scythe through wheat.

Allen's team struck from the west, his modified assault rifle spitting fire, his men gunning down those who tried to flee.

Kael surged forward, boots kicking off the gravel as he burst from cover, raising both pistols in a single fluid motion. Muzzle flashes lit up the dark as he pulled the triggers, his shots precise, controlled. The first two soldiers never even turned—headshots, clean, silent deaths in the storm.

A third spun around, his rifle rising. Too slow.

Kael dipped low, twisting his body as he fired twice into the man's chest. Blood sprayed into the air as the soldier collapsed backward, fingers still clutching at the trigger.

By then, Allen was already on the move.

He didn't need finesse. He was raw firepower, a controlled hurricane of destruction. His modified assault rifle roared, ripping through the ranks of confused soldiers, tearing into flesh, shattering armor.

A bullet struck an enemy square in the jaw, snapping his head back like a broken marionette. Another soldier tried to duck behind a barricade—Allen's rounds shredded through the thin cover, the impact sending chunks of flesh and metal flying.

Their formations crumbled instantly.

Allen pivoted sharply, eyes flicking toward Kael. "Four on your left."

Kael didn't answer. He had already moved.

He dove forward, rolling into cover behind a stack of metal crates as a burst of gunfire tore through the air above him. The moment his feet touched solid ground, he was up again, both pistols snapping upward.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

The first soldier jerked violently as two bullets struck his sternum. The second dropped without a sound, a round punching clean through his temple.

The third had a moment to scream—only a moment—before Kael's blade sank deep into his throat.

He yanked it free.

The fourth was already running.

Kael didn't chase.

He simply raised a pistol and put a bullet through the back of his skull.

The enemy had lost all cohesion. Some scattered, some tried to regroup—none of them succeeded.

Resistance fighters surged into the chaos, rifles spitting fire, cutting down those who hesitated.

To Kael's right, a sniper perched on a wrecked truck, his rifle as steady as stone. A shot rang out—one soldier's head snapped backward, body crumpling like a puppet with its strings cut.

Another fighter, wielding a shotgun, stormed through the smoke, his weapon booming with deafening force. A blast to the gut sent a soldier flying backward, armor cracked and shattered.

Screams mixed with the gunfire, but they were fading.

It wasn't a battle.

It was a massacre.

Varen could only watch, horror clawing up his throat as the realization hit him.

They had been played.

From the very beginning.

And now, they were all going to die.

A soldier fell to his knees, clutching his stomach where his insides spilled between his fingers. Another crawled toward his rifle, only for a boot to pin his wrist to the dirt—before a blade sank into his spine.

Kael reloaded in a single motion, eyes scanning for movement.

Allen was beside him now, his rifle still hot from constant fire.

Their gazes met.

They didn't need words.

Kael tilted his chin toward the last pocket of resistance—five soldiers trapped behind a burning vehicle, desperately reloading.

Allen rolled his shoulders.

"I got this."

He sprinted forward before Kael could respond, his boots kicking up dust.

The enemy saw him too late.

One soldier managed to fire. A bullet skimmed past Allen's cheek, but he didn't slow.

He reached the first man and smashed the butt of his rifle into his skull. The crunch of bone was lost in the chaos.

The second raised his weapon—Allen jammed the barrel of his rifle under the man's chin and pulled the trigger.

Boom.

A red mist exploded upward.

The third screamed and tried to run—Kael shot him in the back before he made it two steps.

The fourth and fifth scrambled to surrender, hands flying into the air.

Allen didn't hesitate.

Two quick bursts. The bodies dropped.

The last echoes of gunfire faded.

Silence.

It was over.

[5 Hours ago - Garret's war room]

The dim glow of the holographic map cast sharp shadows across the war room.

Garret stood at the head of the table, his voice steady, methodical.

"They'll expect a direct assault. So we give them one."

He tapped the southern barricade, the primary entry point to the base.

"We'll flood the area with dense smoke—thick enough to drown their sight, disorient their senses. They'll hear explosions, gunfire, they'll see movement, and they'll believe they're under siege from an overwhelming force."

He gestured toward Liara, who nodded, adjusting the projection on the map.

"The drones will handle that part," she explained. "They'll project shadowy figures through the mist, making it look like we have an army three times our actual size. Every time they shoot at one, it'll flicker, shift—never quite solid."

Allen leaned forward, intrigued. "And the gunfire?"

Garret smirked.

"That's where our heavy vehicles come in."

He expanded the map, highlighting several armored Resistance transports stationed outside the southern perimeter.

"We'll set them up outside the base, positioned at an elevated angle. Their mounted weapons will unleash coordinated fire through the smoke, making it seem like our 'phantoms' are shooting back. The enemy will panic, wasting bullets on ghosts."

Kael's expression darkened with understanding. "So by the time they realize the truth—"

"They'll have already used most of their ammunition."

A ripple of realization passed through the room.

Garret crossed his arms. "That's when the real attack begins."

He zoomed in on the convoy exit route, the only escape path the enemy would have left.

"Kael, Allen—your squads will circle behind them. Move fast, stay low. The moment they realize they've been tricked, they'll try to retreat."

His eyes sharpened.

"They'll be running straight into you."

A heavy silence filled the room.

Garret let the weight of his words settle before delivering the final blow.

"This isn't just a battle—it's an execution."

Kael exhaled slowly. Allen cracked his knuckles.

No one disagreed.

Garret placed both hands on the table, his voice quiet but unshakable.

"We strike fast. We strike hard. And we leave no one standing."

Southern Military Base – 04:26 AM

The battlefield was silent.

Smoke drifted through the air in slow, suffocating waves, curling around the broken barricades and the shattered remains of what had once been a military stronghold. The scent of burning oil and gunpowder lingered, mixing with the metallic tang of blood.

The ground was littered with bodies—scattered, motionless, contorted in the positions they had fallen. Some were slumped against walls, their rifles still gripped in lifeless hands. Others lay in heaps where they had been gunned down in the final barrage, their armor torn, their faces frozen in shock.

The Resistance had won.

And the enemy had been wiped out.

Kael moved through the carnage with practiced ease, stepping over corpses, his twin pistols still warm in his grip. His boots crunched against spent casings and shards of broken equipment. The faint glow of dying fires cast jagged shadows across his sharp features, highlighting the cold calculation in his eyes.

Allen walked beside him, his modified assault rifle slung over his shoulder. Unlike Kael, he wasn't silent. He let out a slow breath, shaking the tension from his limbs as he glanced around at the bodies.

"Damn," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "We really did a number on these guys."

Kael didn't respond. He knelt beside a fallen officer, yanking a communication device from the man's vest. Useless. Their comms had been cut off before the battle even started.

Allen watched him work, rolling his shoulders. "Still thinking?"

Kael stood, slipping the useless device into his pocket. He tapped his earpiece.

"Garret."

A crackle of static, then—

"Go ahead."

Kael glanced toward the burning wreckage of the southern barricade, then back at Allen.

"Their forces are eliminated. The plan worked."

There was a pause. Then—

"Understood. Stay sharp."

Zenithar – Overwatch Point

Garret stood atop a high-rise structure overlooking the battlefield, his gloved hands resting on the edge of the rooftop. The wind tugged at the edges of his coat, but he didn't move, didn't flinch. His eyes remained locked on the scene below.

Even from here, he could see the bodies strewn across the ground, the faint embers of smoldering wreckage. He took in the sight with the quiet understanding of a man who had seen far too many battlefields, far too many dead men.

Beside him, Raiga stood with his arms crossed, his blue eyes narrowed. He, too, was silent, but his gaze was different—sharp, calculating, searching for any movement in the aftermath of the massacre.

Garret finally exhaled, tapping the side of his earpiece.

"Kael and Allen confirmed. The base is ours."

He switched channels.

"Liara. Hanna. Get ready."

A pause.

Then, Liara's voice—calm, steady, professional.

"We're in position."

Garret's jaw tightened slightly.

"The convoy is coming."

Raiga's fingers flexed against his bicep, his gaze shifting toward the dark roads beyond the ruined base.

Neither of them spoke.

They didn't need to.

The final stage of the mission had begun.