CHAPTER 48: Blood and Shadow

Outside, the sun had long since set, leaving only a jagged crescent moon to illuminate the skeletal mining towers. The tractors rested silent under tarpaulins as shadows gathered like vultures, waiting for death to come.

By midnight, darkness reigned absolute over Camp Red Vulture.

From a ridge to the east, two silent flashes erupted. A watchtower sentry felt a brief sting in his chest before darkness swallowed him forever. His partner, turning in confusion, dropped a heartbeat later, his lifeless body slumping over the sandbag parapet.

Specter lowered her rifle, her breath calm. Through her scope, she saw figures moving below along the collapsed pit – three shadows weaving through rubble and rusted steel struts.

In the pit tunnel, a young mercenary tasked with night patrol felt his chest tighten with unease. The darkness beyond his flickering headlamp felt deeper than usual, pressing against him like something alive. He never saw the shapes advancing toward the old maintenance ladder.

Inside the tunnel, Reaper paused at the ladder cage, peering up through rust-flecked rungs. Behind him, Aaron's eyes glimmered cold green under NVG lenses. Ghost worked his jammer device with steady fingers.

"Jamming radio net… now," Ghost whispered.

Above, two guards in the generator bunker blinked at their radios in confusion as static squealed through their earpieces. One opened his mouth to speak – just as Reaper burst from the hatch like a black wind, his suppressed pistol barking twice. The guard's words died in a spray of blood across flickering monitors.

The second guard stumbled back, hands raised, eyes wide with terror at the giant masked man striding toward him. His scream was cut off by Reaper's blade sliding under his jawline, spraying arterial mist onto the humming generator coils.

Ghost slipped past him, kneeling at the controls. "Shutting down grid… three, two, one."

Across Camp Red Vulture, floodlights flickered out. Generators whined into silence. Mercenaries outside froze mid-step, the darkness devouring their campfires and throwing them into blind chaos. Some fumbled for flashlights, others raised rifles in panic, scanning for an enemy they could not see.

From her ridge position, Specter watched the confusion spread like infection. She saw fear bloom in their body language: tensed shoulders, darting eyes, trembling fingers on triggers. Beside her, Bravo smirked faintly.

"Like cattle before slaughter," he muttered.

Within the camp, Aaron emerged from the tunnel behind Reaper, SMG raised. His team moved with silent precision, boots crunching over loose gravel. A lone sentry, fumbling with his radio, glanced up just in time to see Aaron's silencer flash. His body dropped, blood pooling beneath his twitching fingers.

They advanced through the darkness. Another mercenary rounded a corner, flashlight beam slicing through shadows. He froze, eyes widening at the sight of Reaper's looming figure. Before a scream could rise, Reaper's massive hand seized his mouth while his blade punctured the man's chest, silencing him with a wet gasp.

They reached the command post. Inside, a radio operator slammed his fists against dead equipment, shouting orders at his men to re-establish contact.

"Where's the generator team? Get those lights back on–"

A flashbang rolled through the doorway, detonating with a white sunburst. The radio operator screamed, blinded, as gunfire whispered through the smoke. Aaron moved like a phantom, each shot placing a man into eternity.

When silence returned, only the commanding officer remained, slumped against a steel desk, ears ringing and tears streaming from his burned eyes. He felt a cold muzzle press between his eyes. His blurred vision cleared enough to see Aaron's pale, expressionless face.

"You… who are you…?" he croaked, voice breaking.

Aaron tilted his head, studying him with detached curiosity.

"Your men are dead," he said softly, his voice nearly tender. "Your power is gone. But your life… can still buy you purpose."

The officer's lips trembled as a warm trickle of urine spread across his trousers.

Outside, mercenaries who had surrendered knelt in the dirt with their hands laced over their heads, staring wide-eyed at the shadows moving among them – silent, masked figures securing weapons and dragging corpses into neat rows. The smell of blood, oil, and desert dust thickened the air.

Above, Specter watched it unfold through her scope, a small smile curving her lips.

"They never stood a chance," she murmured.

Beside her, Bravo chuckled softly, adjusting his rifle sling. "They never do, with him."

Inside the command post, Aaron turned from the trembling officer to his team gathering around him. His grey eyes gleamed with quiet triumph.

"Secure the camp," he ordered calmly. "Tonight, we are shadows."

He glanced out through the broken window at the kneeling prisoners and burning guard towers beyond, the moon reflected like a blade in his eyes.

"Tomorrow… we become legend."