Location: 2 Kilometers Behind the Rusky Imperial Defense Line, Eastern Front

  Date: May 15, 1915

  Time: 2:00 A.M. Early Morning

  The mud was frigid.

  Felix pressed his chest against the earth, feeling the amalgamation of water and clay seep through his uniform, saturating his skin until his very bones felt frozen solid. Around him, shadows moved in absolute silence—twenty-four ghosts whom he was leading into the heart of enemy territory.

  Night was never truly dark here. In the distance, enemy searchlights swept across the sky in alternating patterns, creating an ever-shifting dance of illumination and shadow.

  Every thirty seconds, those beams swept past their position. Every thirty seconds, they had to freeze perfectly still, praying the tall grass would be sufficient to conceal their mud-caked bodies.

  "There it is," Elina whispered beside him. Her index finger pointed southward, where a constellation of tiny lights flickered in the distance. "Ammunition Depot Number Seven. Our primary target."

  Felix raised his night-vision binoculars—spoils of war "borrowed" from a Prussi officer a week ago. The Prussi-made lenses brought the scene into sharp relief. Rows of long wooden warehouses, guard barracks to the east, machine-gun nests in each corner watchtower, and most critically—piles of ammunition crates stacked in the open yard, awaiting transport to the front lines come morning.

  "Three towers," he murmured, calculating in his head. "Twelve perimeter guards. Perhaps twenty in the barracks. Guard dogs on the northern flank."

  "Dogs?" Pablo's voice trembled slightly.

  "Steady. The wind blows south to north. They won't catch our scent." Felix lowered the binoculars. "Pierre, ready the eastern team. Elina, you take the western flank. Pablo and I will infiltrate from the south, following the route we've already scouted."

  Pierre—a former thief from Puerto Cabellon—grinned into the darkness. "Like breaking into an empty house, Commander."

  "No house is ever empty," Felix cut in coldly. "Only houses whose occupants haven't yet realized they're about to die."

  The movement began.

  The eastern and western teams departed first, crawling like serpents through the underbrush. Felix counted the seconds in his head. One hundred eighty seconds to reach their positions. Thirty seconds to neutralize the perimeter guards. Sixty seconds to secure the towers.

  In the eastern tower, a guard yawned, leaning against his machine gun. Below him, Pierre materialized from the darkness like an apparition. His hands—trained through a hundred infiltrations—reached for the guard's neck from behind. One twist. One snapping sound, drowned out by the generator's drone in the distance.

  Simultaneously, at the western tower, Elina moved. More subtle than Pierre, but equally lethal. Her short blade worked in silence. The guard never even had chance to scream.

  Felix counted down. Ten. Nine. Eight.

  He rose, sprinting in a half-crouch toward the main warehouse. Pablo followed, their footsteps perfectly synchronized—the product of hundreds of hours training in the mountain forests.

  Thirty meters. Twenty. Ten.

  The warehouse door was unlocked. Of course it was—who would possibly infiltrate this deep behind enemy lines? They slipped inside, closing the door behind them.

  The scent of gunpowder and grease greeted them. Thousands of ammunition crates, stacked neatly to the ceiling. 77mm artillery shells. Grenades. Crates of Mauser rifles still coated in protective oil. And in the corner, piles of long steel cylinders he couldn't identify.

  "What are those?" Pablo whispered.

  Felix approached, reading the stenciled lettering on the wooden containers. "Gas. Phosgene." His voice was flat. "They're shipping gas to the front."

  Pablo stepped back involuntarily. Even in this topsy-turvy world, gas was something different. Something inhuman.

  "Place the explosives here," Felix commanded, pointing to the artillery ammunition stacks. "And here. And here. I want this entire depot flying sky-high."

  They worked quickly. Trained hands set detonators, connected wires, ensured each explosive was positioned at the most critical points. Outside, Pierre and his team had already finished with the guards and were now moving toward the barracks.

  Felix withdrew a small notebook from his uniform pocket. Beneath the glow of a red-filtered flashlight, he began sketching. A diagram of the depot, ammunition quantities, guard layout, and most critically—details of the gas cylinders. Their quantity. Their markings. Their potential deployment to the front lines.

  This information was more valuable than the depot itself. Mateo needed to know. The scientists at the munitions factory needed to know. So that when the time came, they could produce—or protect themselves against—similar weapons.

  "Commander." Pierre's voice from outside, a soft hiss. "Patrol approaching. One squad, maybe ten men. Coming from the north."

  Felix stopped moving. His eyes narrowed. "Do they know?"

  "Not yet. But they'll pass ten meters from the warehouse. If they see the door open..."

  Enough.

  "Speed it up," Felix hissed at Pablo. "We have three minutes."

  Three minutes. One hundred eighty seconds to finish the setup, exit the warehouse, and vanish into shadow before the patrol arrived.

  The world contracted to heartbeat and hand movement.

  Pablo attached the final detonator, his hands trembling slightly. Felix took over, completing the connection in seconds. Outside, footsteps began to echo—the tramp of boots on frozen ground.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  "It's ready," Pablo breathed.

  "Get out. Through the rear window. I'll set the timer."

  Pablo hesitated. "Commander—"

  "Out! That's an order."

  Pablo went, disappearing through a narrow gap in the rear wall. Felix pressed the small button on the detonator. The clockwork mechanism began ticking. Five minutes. Enough time to escape. Not enough time to be pursued.

  He lunged, reaching the rear window just as the front door began to open. Soldier's voice—"What was that?"—echoed behind him as he hit the ground and rolled into the brush.

  His breath caught. His body froze.

  In the darkness, ten meters from his hiding place, the soldiers halted. Their flashlights swept the surrounding area. Felix saw their faces—young, exhausted, eyes that had already witnessed too much death. One of them, a sergeant with a scar across his nose, stared directly at the bush where Felix lay concealed.

  Three seconds. Four. Five.

  "Nothing there," the sergeant said finally. "Probably a rabbit. Move out."

  They departed.

  Felix waited. One hundred seconds. Two hundred. Three hundred.

  Then,

  BOOM!

  The first explosion tore the night apart, followed by a series of smaller detonations—artillery shells cooking off, creating a massive firework display that illuminated the sky for miles. Flame soared skyward, consuming the wooden warehouses, devouring the gas cylinders, creating a black cloud that billowed into the heavens.

  Felix saw small shadows in the distance—his team, fleeing according to plan. He rose, moving in the opposite direction, drawing attention toward himself.

  Behind him, panicked shouts. Whistles. Sporadic gunfire. But he was already too far, too fast, too dark.

  One Hour Later. Natural Shelter, 5 Kilometers from the Depot.

  Felix leaned against the earthen wall, his breath heavy but controlled. Before him, one by one, his team emerged from the darkness. Pierre. Elina. Pablo. Twenty-three others. All alive.

  One missing.

  He waited. Ten minutes. Twenty. Nothing.

  "Carlos," Elina whispered. "He was on the northern team. When the explosion happened, he... he fell back to make sure we all got out."

  Felix closed his eyes. Carlos. Twenty-three years old. Had a mother in a mountain village. Newly married before deployment.

  "We wait until dawn," he said. "After that, we consider him..."

  He didn't finish the sentence.

  They waited. In the distance, the sky still glowed red from the inferno they'd created. Enemy reconnaissance aircraft began circling overhead, searching. But they were safe in this fold of earth, concealed.

  As dawn began to break, Felix opened his notebook. With a small pencil, he wrote:

  May 15, 1915. Rusky Imperial Ammunition Depot Number 7. Destroyed 02:45. Estimated enemy losses: 200,000 artillery shells, 5,000 grenades, 500 phosgene gas cylinders. Guards: 15 KIA. Sombra personnel: 1 MIA (Carlos Mendoza, age 23). Technical data attached.

  He signed the report with his code name: San Muerte—the designation Mateo had given him when Sombra was activated.

  "Commander." Pierre crawled close. "There's something you need to see."

  Felix followed him to the edge of the shelter, peering through the brush. In the valley below, a train moved slowly. Not an ordinary train—its carriages were tarp-covered, heavily guarded by armed soldiers.

  "Ammunition train?" Felix asked.

  "No." Pierre extended the binoculars. "Look closer."

  Felix observed. The first carriage—open-topped—carried... artillery? But not ordinary artillery. Its barrel was long, bulbous at the base, with complex recoil absorption systems.

  "Long-range cannon," Felix murmured.

  This information was more valuable than any ammunition depot. Felix began sketching again, recording every detail—number of carriages, direction of travel, security systems, and most critically, rough sketches of the massive cannon.

  "This must reach Caraccass," he said. "Before they can deploy it."

  ***

  Three Days Later. Sombra Temporary Headquarters, Hidden Cave in the Foothills.

  Felix sat around a small fire, surrounded by the twenty-three who remained. Outside, torrential rain poured down, concealing their tracks from aerial patrols.

  The faces around him were faces that had transformed. No longer the eager young soldiers who'd departed with enthusiasm. They were veterans now—with eyes that held deeper shadows, smiles that came less frequently, and the awareness that death could strike at any moment.

  "Reports," Felix said, beginning their nightly ritual.

  One by one, they reported. Enemy troop sightings. Military movements. Road conditions. Rumors from villages. Every piece of information was recorded, encoded, prepared for transmission to Caraccass via the courier who would depart next week.

  Pablo reported last. "In the eastern village, there's a black market. Enemy soldiers are selling supplies—canned food, blankets, even ammunition—for liquor and women."

  "Interesting," Felix said. "That means their logistics are degrading. Morale is crumbling."

  Elina nodded. "And that means they'll become more brutal with the civilian population. The more desperate, the more vicious."

  Felix made notes. This information would be useful—not only for military intelligence but for propaganda. A starving enemy is an enemy that can be defeated.

  "Commander." Pierre approached, his voice low. "I need to speak with you."

  Felix nodded, gesturing for the others to rest. The two of them walked to the cave mouth, gazing at the rain lashing the valley below.

  "What is it?"

  Pierre drew a deep breath. "I'm afraid, Commander."

  Felix didn't mock him. "Fear is natural. What's unnatural is feeling no fear at all."

  "Not fear of dying." Pierre swallowed hard. "Fear that... I'll become a monster. Like them."

  He gestured toward the distance—toward the depot they'd destroyed, toward the corpses of the guards he'd killed with his own hands.

  "I never imagined," Pierre continued, his voice trembling, "killing in silence. Seeing their eyes as my blade entered their throats. How it felt... I don't know. Empty. But afterward, I can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see their faces."

  Felix was silent for a long moment. Then he spoke. "You know what separates us from them, Pierre?"

  "What?"

  "We know that what we do is horrifying. And we don't enjoy it." Felix stared into the rain. "I've watched many friends die. And each time, a piece of me died with them. But as long as we can still feel revulsion at what we do—as long as we can still weep for those we kill—we haven't become monsters yet."

  Pierre looked down. "Carlos... he had a new wife. What will you tell her?"

  "The truth." Felix's voice was flat. "That he died a hero. That he saved us all. And that we'll protect his family as if they were our own."

  It was a lie. In covert operations, civilians could never know the truth. But it was a necessary lie.

  They stood in silence, watching the rain gradually subside. In the distance, sunlight began piercing the clouds, creating a rainbow over the valley they'd just traversed.

  "Tomorrow," Felix said finally, "we move south. There's a railway bridge we need to destroy. And a fuel depot behind enemy lines."

  Pierre nodded. His face remained pale, but new determination kindled in his eyes.

  "And after that?" he asked.

  "After that, we go home." Felix clasped his shoulder. "Bringing the intelligence home. And hoping that all of this wasn't for nothing."

  ***

  That Night. The Same Cave.

  Felix wrote his final report before dispatch:

  To: El Arquitecto.

  We have been here for two months. After one more mission, we will return. Twenty-four departed; twenty-three remain. One name I have added to the roster of heroes you will read in the official reports.

  But what you will not read in official reports is this: those who survived have changed. Their eyes now perceive the world differently—more vigilant, more suspicious, and more sorrowful. They have witnessed things that words cannot adequately describe. The stench of gas seeping from ruptured cylinders. The sound of young soldiers crying for their mothers as they die. The silence after an explosion, which is louder than the explosion itself.

  I do not know if this is what you meant by "learning." But they have learned. About death. About fear. About what it means to be human amid the chaos that humans themselves have created.

  The intelligence we have gathered is attached. Details of new weapons, tactics, logistics, enemy morale, and their vulnerabilities. May this prove useful for your factories, for the engineers and scientists you have recruited, for the future you are attempting to build atop the foundation of these corpses.

  One request: do not forget Carlos. Do not forget the names that will not return. They may be merely statistics in your reports, but to us, they were friends. Brothers. Human beings with dreams and fears, who gave their lives for a nation they never even saw at peace.

  We will return. Twenty-three of us. But we will never fully come home.

  -San Muerte.

  Felix folded the letter, sealed it with wax, and handed it to the courier who would depart at dawn.

  https://paypal.me/ArdanAuthor)