DARNOVA CITIZENS POV
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The city of Darnova had never seen anything like it.
First came the sound—distant, like rolling thunder. Families peered out from their balconies, children clutching their mothers' dresses. Shopkeepers left their stalls. Traffic halted. Everyone turned toward the main boulevard that led from the border to the President's Tower.
Then came the sight.
An ocean of armored vehicles, B.A.M soldiers in perfect formation, uniforms gleaming under the sun. Their boots struck the ground in sync, shaking the very streets. Towering banners of Blackwood unfurled, crimson-black, carried high above the convoy.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Old Man (whispering): "This… this is not a visit. This is a takeover."
At the heart of the parade, surrounded by layers of military might, was a snow-white limousine unlike anything the people of Darnova had ever seen. It moved slowly, deliberately, as if every second was a message: We own the time. We own the road. We own you.
Children pointed. Women covered their mouths. Men clenched their fists but lowered their eyes.
The convoy didn't just pass—it consumed the city. Helicopters circled overhead, dropping petals and banners. Blackwood's anthem thundered through mounted speakers.
A young citizen muttered: "Our president's convoy never looked like this. Even his inauguration wasn't this grand…"
The people's awe began to blur with fear.
Every step, every roar of the engines, every banner was a reminder: Darnova had been swallowed. Not with bombs. Not with fire. But with spectacle.
And as the white limousine approached the President's Tower, the crowd whispered the name they had tried not to speak aloud for years—
All together, hushed yet
trembling:
"Chris Blackwood."