"…."
Caesar did not blink.
He simply continued watching as the Special Forces tore through the battlefield—moving with frightening coordination, as if every motion was part of a rehearsed symphony of slaughter. Formations broke like brittle glass before them. Shields, armor, and bodies were crushed beneath strikes executed with ruthless precision.
The screams below echoed through the smoke-filled air.
The ground trembled, and the air smelled like ash and death.
And still—Caesar stood motionless.
The bodies piled up fast—far too fast for any army of ordinary men.
Every swing, thrust, or blast from one of the four thousand elites resulted in at least one kill… often two, sometimes entire clusters of soldiers collapsing in a single synchronized wave of death.
To any observer, this would look like victory.
A spectacle of overwhelming dominance.
But Caesar's expression didn't reflect triumph.
There was no pride.
No relief.
