19 July 2037
04:50
Halifax, Nova Scotia
The city was still cloaked in pre-dawn darkness, the streets empty except for scattered patrols of FNA soldiers. A soft Atlantic mist rolled between high-rise buildings, turning the distant streetlights into hazy orbs. At the heart of Halifax, the Roseville Hotel stood like a fortress—thirty stories of glass and steel, its windows darkened, its perimeter wrapped in sandbags, barbed wire, and mobile SAM turrets hidden under camouflage netting.
It looked less like a hotel now, more like a citadel.
But the stillness didn't last.
The silence shattered as the first pair of SU-57 stealth fighters screamed low over the harbor. Their silhouettes cut across the skyline like predators.
"Vulture 1, bombs away."
Explosions rippled across the northern district as the jets dropped their payloads. A line of fire and dust erupted where a SAM site had once sat, the shockwaves rattling nearby shopfronts. Before the fireballs had even settled, a second pair followed in, their engines howling.
"Vulture 3 and 4, strike complete. Multiple air defense nodes destroyed."
From the rooftops, tracers clawed upward in retaliation. FNA gunners fired indiscriminately, their streams of 23mm and 30mm rounds peppering office towers, ripping through windows, killing anyone unlucky enough to still be inside. Civilian screams cut through the static on open radio channels—FNA didn't care who died, so long as they threw fire into the sky.
The SNA fighters didn't return fire on those occupied civilian blocks. They banked hard, dropped their remaining munitions on the designated coordinates, and peeled back toward the Atlantic.
"Aquaman, this is Vulture flight. Primary targets neutralized, returning to Freedom."
"Copy, Vultures. Good hunting."
For a moment, Halifax was nothing but smoke and fire, the streets glowing in orange patches. And then came the next wave.
---
04:56
Athena, above Halifax
"Princess to Ghost, we're on final approach."
From his harnessed seat inside Athena, Sohel—Ghost—looked up at the reinforced bulkhead vibrating under the engines. The ship's belly doors yawned open, and the night lit up beneath them. He could see the Roseville Hotel in the distance through his visor overlay, AURA tagging hostile positions in red across the city grid.
"Ghost copies," Sohel said into his mic, his voice level. "All hunters, standby for the hammer."
On the weapons console, De Luca grinned grimly. His hands tightened around the controls. "Let's delete these bastards."
"EMP rounds loaded," AURA confirmed.
The first 40mm autocannon burst tore down from Athena's belly, raining sparks into the streets. Bursts of blue-white electromagnetic fire bloomed across the FNA's perimeter. Mobile radars sparked, vehicles died in place, and several AA turrets slumped lifeless, their operators panicking as their systems shut down.
"Switching to high-explosive." De Luca toggled the next bank. The 105mm thundered. Then the 220mm howitzer spoke—one colossal round arcing down, slamming into a fortified checkpoint near the hotel. The fireball lit half the block, smoke boiling upward.
"Ghost, hammer run complete," Annabelle reported, steady at the helm. "Athena's peeling back for close air. Good luck down there."
"See you on the ground, Princess," Sohel replied.
The ramp opened. Cold morning air swept in, carrying the acrid taste of burning asphalt and cordite.
Mei—Aphrodite—adjusted her visor and glanced at Sohel. "Time to end this."
Sohel nodded once. Then the squad unstrapped.
---
05:00
Groundside
The four MI-32s carrying Delta units thundered into the outer city blocks, skidding to hard landings on rubble-strewn streets. Marines poured out, rifles shouldered, immediately forming perimeters.
"Delta 1, secure the north approach."
"Delta 2, cover the south. Keep civilians clear."
"Delta 3 and 4, with me—east side push."
Shadows darted between ruined cars and concrete barricades. SNA soldiers advanced with precision—suppressing fire controlled, each shot measured. Civilians were ushered out of harm's way wherever possible, guided down alleys by medics and comms officers.
The FNA's response, in contrast, was chaotic brutality. From fortified windows, machine guns raked indiscriminately across the streets, tearing into abandoned apartments. RPGs flew without aim, collapsing entire shopfronts. The crackle of AK-203s and Type-95 rifles echoed without rhythm, only rage.
"Delta 3 taking fire, second floor of the bakery!"
"Copy. Marking."
A red laser marked the window, and a single 25mm burst from Athena erased the shooters without touching the building's lower floors.
"Ghost to all Deltas—keep it tight, avoid collateral."
"Copy, Alpha 1. Civilians are priority."
Sohel, Mei, and Elina fast-roped down as Athena banked away, her cannons already engaging new AA trucks rolling in from the west. Boots hit asphalt. They moved immediately, rifles raised, covering one another in perfect rhythm.
"Ghost, Aphrodite, and Hunter moving east with Delta 4," Sohel reported.
"Copy," Annabelle replied in his ear. "I've got eyes overhead. Marking hostiles along your route. Sending HUD updates."
Red diamonds flickered onto their visors, showing enemy positions behind cars, rooftops, alley mouths.
Sohel's HK416 cracked, each burst precise, dropping two FNA riflemen who had just set up a PKM behind a taxi.
Elina moved next, her fire chewing through another pair trying to flank from a stairwell. She muttered, "These guys don't even care if they hit civilians. Animals."
"Focus," Mei said flatly. "Keep moving."
They advanced block by block, shadows darting in the smoke, the SNA clearing rooms, dragging civilians from basements, keeping their formation intact.
Overhead, Athena rained fire in controlled bursts, cutting down technicals trying to race in with reinforcements.
But the FNA weren't retreating. They were funneling.
Every street they took, more resistance waited, each barricade leading closer to the hotel. The Roseville loomed larger, lit in red by burning vehicles and muzzle flashes. Its upper windows flared with sniper fire.
"Snipers, 18th and 20th floors," AURA announced.
Sohel dropped to a knee, lined up, and squeezed. One sniper toppled back from a shattered window. Mei darted forward under covering fire, sprinting low, closing distance like a shadow. Bullets sparked where she had been a fraction of a second earlier—her eyes reading the twitch of enemy muzzles before they fired. She moved inhumanly fast, knife flashing as she gutted one distracted rifleman who hadn't even seen her coming.
"Clear!" she called back.
The SNA line pushed forward another hundred meters.
---
05:18
Two blocks from Roseville
The fight became a grind. Mortars began dropping indiscriminately from the hotel's courtyard, smashing parked cars and collapsing intersections. One shell landed short, tearing a crater in the road and killing three FNA soldiers trying to reinforce. Their comrades didn't even stop to check. They shoved past the bodies, firing wildly.
"Delta 2 pinned!" a voice barked in the net. "We've got civilians trapped in a school on our flank."
"Ghost, permission to redeploy?"
"Negative," Sohel snapped. "Hold your ground. Princess, cover Delta 2."
"On it," Annabelle said. Seconds later, Athena's 40mm shredded the mortar crew, the explosions rolling like thunder through the mist.
The Undeads pressed forward again. Elina took a grazing round across her arm but shook it off, teeth bared. De Luca's voice cut in from Athena's guns: "Path is opening. Push now, Ghost!"
Sohel raised his fist. "Forward!"
Delta 3 surged with them, clearing barricades at bayonet range, kicking in shop doors, hurling flashbangs into stairwells. The difference between the SNA's measured advance and the FNA's chaos was stark—one side a scalpel, the other a hammer smashing everything in reach.
By 05:30, they had reached the final boulevard. The Roseville towered overhead, its glass façade scarred by fire. The lobby entrance was fortified with sandbags and steel plates, two technicals blocking the driveway. Dozens of FNA gunners opened fire in desperation, tracers hissing across the boulevard.
"Ghost to all units—this is it. Final push."
Delta squads formed a staggered line. Smoke grenades burst, rolling a wall of white across the boulevard. Under the cover, Sohel moved, rifle barking with precise bursts. Mei slipped ahead like a phantom, dodging bursts, closing distance. Elina provided covering fire, her rounds snapping through the haze.
Athena screamed low overhead, her cannons ripping the technicals apart in a rain of shrapnel.
When the smoke cleared, the FNA line was broken. Their bodies littered the sandbags, guns abandoned. Survivors fell back through the revolving doors into the lobby.
Sohel jogged forward, HK416 still raised. His boots crunched on broken glass. He reached the entrance and paused, chest heaving, visor fogged from the smoke.
Behind him, Delta squads secured the street, pulling wounded back, establishing firing arcs. The civilians caught in crossfire were being herded away under medic escort.
Mei stood at his shoulder, knife dripping. Elina covered their flank, her breathing ragged.
Sohel looked at the looming dark lobby.
"Ghost to all stations," he said, voice calm but sharp. "Roseville breached. Task Force 7 moving inside."
And with that, the Undeads stepped into the darkness of the hotel.
05:34
Roseville Hotel Lobby, Halifax
The glass doors wheezed shut behind them, cutting out the roar of battle on the streets. For a moment, silence pressed in—heavy, suffocating—broken only by the distant crackle of flames and the groan of the hotel's wounded structure.
The lobby was vast, marble floors smeared with blood and dust. Chandeliers dangled like broken teeth from the ceiling, swaying slightly. The front desk was overturned into a barricade, FNA bodies slumped behind it. Bullet holes scarred the walls.
Sohel swept his rifle across the space, visor overlay tagging every heat signature AURA fed him. "Clear the ground floor."
Delta 3 pushed in through the rear entrance, their formation snapping tight as they secured the hallways. One squad sprinted for the elevators, another covered the stairwell. The remaining soldiers dragged FNA corpses aside, checking for survivors, making room for medics.
Then AURA's voice came sharp and cold in Sohel's earpiece:
"Major, I have eyes on target. Tatsuo Kuroshima identified. Bio signature match: 98.7%. He is moving up through the stairwell—currently between the 17th and 18th floors. Laptop in hand. Data uplink detected."
Sohel's jaw clenched. "Ghost copies. Aphrodite, Hunter—on me."
Mei gave a curt nod, already moving toward the stairwell. Elina slammed a fresh mag into her rifle and followed, boots striking hard against marble.
"Delta, hold the lobby," Sohel ordered. "Do not let reinforcements inside."
"Copy, Ghost. We'll lock it down."
Then Task Force 7's spear trio—Ghost, Aphrodite, and Hunter—threw themselves into the stairwell.
---
05:37
Roseville Stairwell
The stairwell smelled of cordite and burnt plaster. Emergency lights flickered red across the concrete walls. The echoes of boots pounded above—Kuroshima wasn't running alone.
FNA gunmen appeared two flights up, rifles barking.
"Contact!" Elina shouted. She ducked behind the railing, answering with precise bursts. Sparks showered from the steel handrail as bullets chewed through it.
Sohel snapped his HK416 upward, sight picture clean, and double-tapped two hostiles in the chest. They crumpled down the stairs, bodies tumbling, rifles clattering against the steps.
"Keep moving," Sohel barked.
They surged upward, each landing a gauntlet of fire and smoke. Mei led the charge now, darting ahead, her uncanny reflexes carrying her past the arc of bullets before they even fired. She closed on one gunman, slamming his rifle aside and driving her knife deep into his throat, leaving him twitching in silence.
"Seventeenth floor," AURA updated. "Target continuing upward. Upload in progress—23%."
"He's buying time," Sohel muttered.
Another burst of gunfire screamed down from the 19th floor. Elina leaned out to return fire—too late. A single 7.62 round punched across her face, just below the visor seal. Blood exploded across the stairwell wall.
"Elina!" Mei screamed.
She collapsed against the railing, clutching her left eye, blood streaming between her fingers. Her rifle clattered to the steps.
"I'm hit! I'm hit!" Her voice was ragged, panicked.
Sohel dropped beside her, yanking a tourniquet strap from his vest. He pressed her back against the wall, forcing her hand away, ignoring the way she thrashed. The wound was brutal—shrapnel and bone fragments around the socket.
"Elina, listen to me," he said firmly, voice calm despite the gunfire echoing above. "You're going to live. You hear me? Stay with me."
She tried to speak, blood bubbling at the corner of her mouth. Mei leaned over, her voice breaking but firm. "Medics are on standby. You'll walk out of here, Hunter. That's an order."
Sohel snapped on his comms. "Delta, I need medivac in the stairwell, 18th floor. Now!"
"Copy, Ghost. Bird on the way."
Boots pounded below. SNA medics stormed up with stretchers, dragging Elina down the steps, blood trailing behind. She tried to lift a hand to salute, but it fell limp.
Sohel watched her go for half a second, then forced himself forward. He couldn't stop. Not now.
---
05:46
25th Floor
The stairwell burst open onto a long corridor lined with conference rooms. Fire doors slammed in the distance. FNA soldiers were dug in, rifles braced against makeshift barricades of tables and overturned couches.
"Hold your ground!" one shouted. "Don't let them through!"
Sohel and Mei dove behind a pillar as bullets ripped plaster around them.
"AURA, Kuroshima's position?" Sohel demanded.
"Twenty-ninth floor. Upload 67%. ETA rooftop exit in two minutes."
Mei's eyes narrowed. "I'll hold them here. You go."
Sohel turned sharply. "Not leaving you alone."
Her face hardened. "If we both stay, he escapes. You know that."
She ripped a smoke grenade from her vest and pulled the pin, rolling it into the hall. Thick white fog flooded the corridor. Bullets went blind, tracers cutting through nothing.
"I can handle this," Mei said, her voice calm but her eyes fierce. She drew her knife in one hand, pistol in the other. "I'll buy you time."
Sohel hesitated for a single breath. Then he nodded. "Don't you dare die."
Mei smirked faintly. "Wouldn't dream of it."
She sprinted into the smoke, vanishing like a shadow, her blade flashing as muffled screams erupted. Gunfire rattled wildly in every direction.
Sohel vaulted over the barricade, taking the opposite stairwell up. His boots hammered the steps, lungs burning.
---
05:53
Rooftop Access
The stairwell ended in a heavy steel door. It was ajar, faint morning wind curling through.
AURA's voice cut sharp:
> "Target confirmed. Tatsuo Kuroshima on the rooftop. Upload 94%. Major, this is your last chance."
Sohel slowed his breathing, rifle raised. His heart pounded like a war drum, not from fear but from anticipation. The weight of every fallen comrade—Mitali, Arina, the hostages, Elina's blood still wet on his gloves—pressed behind his trigger finger.
He nudged the door open with his barrel.
The rooftop spread wide before him, winds whipping across the tar surface. Halifax's skyline burned below, the harbor still glowing with fire from the airstrikes.
And there—at the far edge—stood Tatsuo Kuroshima.
A slim man in a tailored black suit, immaculate despite the carnage. His laptop was open on a small foldout terminal, the screen glowing as data streamed upward. His hair whipped in the wind, his expression calm, almost amused.
He turned his head slightly, sensing Sohel's presence, and smiled faintly.
"Ah. The Ghost himself."
Sohel leveled his rifle, stepping onto the rooftop.
"This ends now, Kuroshima. No more moves," Sohel said, voice low and steady.
Kuroshima turned with the slow, calm movement of a man who had nothing left to conceal. The laptop beside him glowed; the progress bar had reached one hundred percent and then vaporized into a spinning confirmation icon. The rooftop wind took the sound and scattered it over Halifax like ash.
"I have no more moves to make, Chowdhury," Kuroshima said, almost conversational. "I've done everything I wanted to do."
"Sohel—what did you upload?" The question came out tighter than he meant. AURA's overlay scrolled frantic warnings across his HUD: multiple uplinks, distributed seeds, mirror sites. The hotel below them had become a broadcast tower for the world.
Kuroshima sat on the tar, one leg bent, his hands folded loosely in his lap. There was none of the frantic energy Sohel had expected—no madman's bluster, just the steady attentiveness of a man convinced of the morality of his act.
"Truth," Kuroshima said. "Do you know why I picked those countries? Because they hold power—political, financial, moral—after the SNA. What I sent just finished distributing itself. Proof. Evidence of lies, betrayals, corruption. Names, dates, transactions. By now their citizens are reading it. You imagine what comes next?"
Sohel's stomach dropped. The rooftop blurred a little around the edges as comprehension landed like a blow. "Chaos," he said, each syllable heavy. "More chaos than this. Cities burning, governments collapsing. But… why go so far?"
"To clear the field," Kuroshima answered. His voice carried no hatred—only grief folded into doctrine. "To burn the rotten scaffolding and let something new grow. My daughter called me that night. She called from the ship." He named the ship as if it were an old wound, and the name pulled something raw out of Sohel's memory. "They were supposed to be rescued. They lied. They betrayed her. I listened to her scream through a satellite line and I could not cross the ocean. I could not save her."
Kuroshima let that sit between them, a small, raw truth. The wind picked up and pulled at his hair.
"So you decided to punish the world?" Sohel asked, not sure where indignation stopped and pity began.
"To punish the lie," Kuroshima said quietly. "To set a fire under the whole theatre so that the actors can no longer pretend." He reached into the small bag by his side and produced a Glock 19 with the unfussy motion of someone who had practiced the movement. "My job is done. Now it's your turn to finish what I started."
Sohel's hands tightened around his rifle. He could almost see, in the corner of his thoughts, the long ledger Kuroshima promised—names intoxicated with consequence. He thought of Mitali and Arina and the hostages, of civilians in cities now reading whatever poison Kuroshima had poured into the web. He thought of the way the world tilted when truth becomes a weapon.
Kuroshima lifted the pistol and set the barrel against his temple with a tenderness so ordinary it made Sohel flinch.
"Don't," Sohel shouted, dropping the remaining distance in three strides.
The man's finger was already curling. Sohel lunged, throwing his weight into the motion, but the rooftop was a handspan too far. He reached for the gun as it fired, but the single crack split the air before his hand closed on the slide.
The sound was too loud—an animal punctuation in the wind. Kuroshima's body folded against the low parapet as if tired and suddenly ready to sink. He did not scream. The smile on his face was small and private, as if he had at last cut the thread of a long grief.
Sohel skidded to his knees, chest heaving. The pistol clattered a small, muffled sound on the tar and slid from Kuroshima's hand. For a moment the rooftop existed only as close, tactile things: the cold of the metal railing under his palm, the scrape of Sohel's boot on the gravel, the distant wail of sirens and the thud of helicopter rotors far below.
He crouched over the man and checked for a pulse by habit, though he already knew the answer. His fingers found nothing but the slow, indifferent cessation of a human heart.
Kuroshima's eyes, now glassy, were still open and fixed on the horizon. In them was the same absence Sohel had seen in ghosts: a person who had let himself become a ledger of grievances and then paid the price he believed necessary.
Sohel sat back on his heels and let the wind pull at the hem of his uniform. Anger surged, hot and immediate—but it was joined by a different current, heavier and more dangerous: the knowledge that what Kuroshima had unleashed would not be contained by one rooftop or one man's death. The world below would convulse as corrupted truths bled into feeds, into protests, into governments and markets.
He swallowed and felt the ghost of fatigue behind his teeth. Mei's struggle was somewhere below him; Elina's pallid face flashed across his thoughts. The cost ledger lengthened in his head.
AURA's voice cut into his ear, clinical and steady: "Target neutralized. Data propagation confirmed. Multiple mirrors active. Global dissemination ongoing."
Sohel's gloves closed over the Glock. He pushed the empty magazine aside, pocketed the weapon, and rose, standing over the man who had collapsed like a burned-out cinder. For a moment he considered every small, possible reprieve—detain, interrogate, parade the body—but the city was already changing. The choice had slipped from the realm of the personal into the political.
He turned his head once toward the stairwell, where the rest of his squad would be fighting for every inch down the line. Mei's voice had been cut from the net, but the crackle of gunfire sent a red pulse through his bones.
Sohel looked down at Kuroshima's still face and then up at the skyline, at the thin smoke rising over Halifax, at the distant lights of ships and the silhouettes of men bracing for the next move.
There were no epiphanies here—only the firm, tired knowledge that a man could die on a rooftop and yet a war could rage on, fed by the very truth he had poured into the ether. He squared his shoulders, drew breath, and began to descend.
The world had changed in a matter of days. Not through the detonation of bombs, not through the victory of armies, but by the slow poison of truth released into the bloodstream of the global system.
The documents spread by Tatsuo Kuroshima burned hotter than fire. In the United States, the revelations were nothing short of catastrophic. Millions of pages—financial records, secret communications, orders signed by men who had once called themselves leaders—circulated across every device. Proof of backroom deals, proof of campaigns funded by corporations in exchange for policy, proof of entire wars fought for profit, not defense. The citizens of the United States, weary from years of escalation, marched through their cities, waving signs and shouting until the very foundations of their government shook.
Washington D.C. became a fortress of barricades and burning vehicles. The White House was evacuated after a mob of hundreds of thousands encircled it. The President resigned in the early hours of July 19th. Congress dissolved soon after, its members fleeing or facing trial under the fury of their own people. What replaced it was still uncertain—committees of governors, civilians demanding elections, military units declaring neutrality—but the old structure was gone.
In Germany, the fall was quieter, but no less complete. The revelations of bribery between high-ranking officials and foreign defense contractors struck the government like a knife through paper. The Bundestag convened in an emergency session, and within 24 hours, the Chancellor and his cabinet resigned en masse. Crowds filled Munich, some celebrating, some demanding harsher justice. By dawn of July 20th, a provisional council formed, not of politicians, but of military and civilian figures alike, vowing to rebuild Germany from the ruins of deception.
Brazil erupted in fire. Riots spread through São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro as proof surfaced of systemic embezzlement, where billions meant for schools and hospitals had been rerouted into secret weapons programs. Anger boiled into bloodshed. Protesters clashed with the military police, and for three days, the nation seemed on the brink of collapse. Finally, on July 21st, the generals stepped forward, announcing that they had taken control to "preserve the nation from itself." Whether it was a coup or a temporary stabilization was irrelevant; the old government was gone, dragged down by its own corruption.
India fractured under the weight of revelation. Entire villages watched grainy videos of their leaders in backroom meetings with foreign agents, selling the future of the country for personal profit. The largest democracy in the world buckled under the betrayal of trust. Parliament ceased to function as protests spread across every state. Several ministers were arrested by their own police, dragged through streets where people spat on them, calling them traitors. By July 22nd, India was not governed by Delhi anymore, but by its people—local assemblies rising to fill the void, their voices calling for a new constitution.
In South Korea, the scandal struck like a hammer. Revelations of secret pacts with corporations and covert arrangements with FNA generals sparked outrage. Seoul drowned in marches—millions filling Gwanghwamun Square, candles held high, chanting through the night. The government collapsed with little resistance. The President went on national television, bowed deeply, and resigned with tears on her face. She had betrayed her oath, and the people demanded a future unshackled from lies.
But it was Israel that burned the most violently. The documents revealed clandestine agreements, assassinations masked as counter-terrorism, and the selling of national defense secrets to line the pockets of a select few. The revelations shattered the fragile unity of the country. Within hours, Jerusalem became a battlefield—police and protesters clashing in streets lined with fire. The government declared martial law, but the military refused to fire on civilians. Instead, they arrested the politicians themselves. The Knesset stood empty by July 21st, its members imprisoned or fled. The government of Israel ceased to exist in the space of three blood-soaked days.
---
With each government that fell, the FNA began to crumble.
At first, its leaders called the revelations lies. Propaganda, they claimed, spread by the SNA to weaken their resolve. But soldiers in the trenches and pilots in the skies had phones. They had families. They had eyes. When they saw their leaders' names written in the documents, when they saw the photographs of meetings in foreign embassies, when they saw evidence that the war had never been for justice but for power—something inside them broke.
By July 23rd, entire FNA divisions were laying down their arms. Regiments surrendered en masse, raising white flags not to their enemies but to the sky, ashamed of the blood they had spilled for the greed of others. Commanders refused orders, saying simply: "There is no cause."
One by one, the flags of the Federation came down. In Warsaw, a general stepped in front of his own men and declared the war over. In Tehran, FNA officers destroyed their command radios and abandoned their posts. In Cairo, soldiers took off their uniforms and returned home, unwilling to die for lies.
The FNA surrendered, not with treaties or signatures, but with silence. Guns lowered, tanks abandoned, aircraft grounded. No army could fight without a reason to fight, and their reason had been stolen.
---
But peace was not triumphant.
What remained of the world in those days was not whole—it was broken, scarred, and blood-soaked. Cities lay in ruins, burned by artillery and bombings. Nations bled from wounds not just of war but of betrayal. Families searched through rubble for sons and daughters who would never come home. Streets echoed with songs of victory and cries of mourning at the same time.
And yet, through the smoke, something fragile appeared.
On July 24th, the guns fell silent. For the first time in years, no barrages thundered across frontlines, no aircraft screamed overhead. Across Europe, Asia, and the Americas, men and women walked out of trenches and bunkers, raising their hands not in defiance but in surrender to the exhaustion of war. The world, for the first time in memory, was still.
The broken nations turned their eyes not to their former enemies, but to themselves. Protesters swept through streets not to demand more war, but to demand never again. Communities formed across borders—villages in Germany speaking with villages in Poland, towns in India calling for peace with towns in Pakistan, Americans linking hands with those they had once called foes. The anger was real, but so was the longing to rebuild.
For years, the world had marched toward destruction. Now, standing amid the ruins, people found themselves with a choice: continue burning, or try—desperately, painfully—to build something new.
And in that moment, the choice became clear.
The FNA was gone, its banners lowered. The governments that had forced the world into war had crumbled under the weight of truth. What replaced them was uncertain—councils, assemblies, the fragile beginnings of democracies. But in every city, in every ruined street, one word passed from mouth to mouth, carried like a prayer: peace.
The war had ended. The world was free again, though shattered.
And in the silence that followed, the greatest challenge was no longer how to win the war, but how to heal from it.