The battlefield of Base Three's outer court came into sight.
Flames licked the sky. Screams echoed. Blood painted the dirt red. Dozens of resistance soldiers lay sprawled, some cut down, others ripped apart. Three towering figures stood at the heart of the carnage—Zorwath's generals. Each cloaked in black steel armor, blades glinting with fresh blood.
Two of them already lay dead, their broken bodies crumpled in the dirt. But the third still stood tall, calm and suffocating with murderous intent—Parkh, Zorwath's strongest general. His crimson-tipped daggers dripped like venom, and his aura pressed down on the battlefield like a storm.
And before him—Aamir's mother.
She stood surrounded by blood, one hand clutching her stomach where a deep wound spilled crimson across her robes. Her body trembled, her face pale, yet her eyes still burned with fire. She had slain two generals with her own hands, but the cost was written in every ragged breath she took.
