Northern Syria
China
Although the most powerful tycoons of Northern Syria managed to weather the pandemic through their wealth and influence, the nation itself continued its steady descent into chaos.
Recently, NS TV — the largest international broadcaster for the region was forced to shut down completely after President Bharadi Rubin fled into exile in Damascus. In a desperate attempt to contain the spiraling disorder, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs lobbied for U.S intervention. Soon after, thousands of NATO troops poured into Northern Syria, marking 2016 as the deadliest year of conflict since the pandemic outbreak before 1991.
From exile, President Rubin established a transitional government in Damascus, vowing to preserve Northern Syria's sovereignty until legitimate civil governance could be restored.
Damascus, wary of the growing unrest, had already sealed its borders back in 2005, anticipating that Northern Syria's collapse was inevitable. By 2016, Portfolio Benjamin Franklin had grimly predicted that the region would become a failed state.
Meanwhile, Southern Syria had fallen into an interregnum. Their governor, Alder, had quietly fled to Brazil, leaving no public statement, no farewell — only silence. The people were abandoned, left in a void of leadership and uncertainty.
Despite President Rubin's desperate efforts to reclaim lost territory, chaos continued to spread. In a final bid for support, he traveled to China to seek aid from Prime Minister Xhing Ping.
In the solemn halls of Beijing, the two leaders met.
"Your Excellency," Prime Minister Xhing Ping said, offering a respectful bow before taking his seat. "It is an honor to meet you."
"Thank you," Rubin replied gravely. "I come to you today to express deep concerns over the economic interests at stake, and the suffering of my people."
"Rest assured, Mr. President," Xhing Ping responded, his voice measured but grim. "We are exploring solutions to this grave crisis."
"Has the President of the United States responded to this situation?" Rubin asked, his tone sharp with impatience.
"No, sir," the Prime Minister said, shaking his head. "The international community remains silent. But the implications are far more severe than they realize."
Rubin leaned forward, his voice lowering. "Thousands are dying in their homeland. It is a disgrace, a stain upon us all. We must act to defeat the forces threatening our land."
Prime Minister Xhing Ping hesitated before offering a hard choice.
"Sir," he said, his expression clouded with uncertainty, "there is only one option left. I advise a military intervention. An offensive operation."
President Rubin fell silent, staring at the Prime Minister as if weighing the full weight of the decision.
"You understand the risks, Xhing Ping," Rubin said quietly. "Many are still untouched by this plague of violence. There is still something left to save. But perhaps I am too late."
Without another word, Rubin rose and made his way to the press hall, where journalists from around the world had gathered. Cameras flashed and microphones were raised as he approached the podium.
He took a deep breath, then spoke, his voice carrying across the crowded room:
"I, Bharadi Rubin, President of Northern Syria, hereby declare a full military mobilization to eradicate the threat that endangers our homeland. We will not surrender. We will not allow our nation to perish."
The crowd erupted, some in shock, some in support as the president stepped down, his declaration echoing through the uncertain future of Northern Syria.
******
The battered TV bolted to the crumbling wall flickered, spitting out shaky images of news reports from CBT — Chinese Broadcasting Television. Covering the few safe patches left in Northern Syria. The screen bathed the dim room in a cold, bluish light.
From the darkness, a long, hairy hand slithered across the cluttered table, fingers curling around the remote. With a sharp click, the screen went black, plunging the room into a thick silence.
A low, rasping laugh broke out, cruel, broken, like gravel grinding underfoot.
"This is it," a voice growled, reverberating against the cracked concrete. "Exactly what I want!"
It wasn't a human voice. It was the voice of something fouler, something that had forgotten what it meant to be alive.
Heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway. The demon froze, its hunched form tensing. Slowly, it began to turn, a wicked grin curling its cracked lips but before it could face the intruder, a club, thick as a tree branch, came swinging out of the shadows. It struck with a sickening crack, sending the demon staggering back, howling as the blow flung a rippling force between him and the attacker.
"You again," the demon snarled, struggling to its knees, its black tongue flickering over broken teeth. "I warned you, you brainless fool—"
The intruder didn't answer. Instead, he lifted one hand, summoning a whirling gust that reeked of poison. In a blink, the wind twisted itself into a dense, shimmering sphere of water then slammed against the demon.
The creature let out a final screech before dissolving into mist, leaving behind only a foul stench and a few splattered drops sizzling on the floor.
The stranger gave a small, almost pitying shake of his head. "Poor thing," he muttered, turning toward the silent TV.
Behind him, the heavy door slammed shut with a shuddering bang.
A voice rang out, sharp with urgency. "Rainier. What's it?"
Rainier the stranger paused, his gloved hand reaching for something half-buried under a broken chair. He lifted a crumpled photograph into the light: a grimy shot of a man, Refel -chained in a small, rusted cell, his face a hollow mask of suffering.
Rainier held the picture up wordlessly.
The second man stepped closer, caught sight of it and recoiled as if struck. His mouth fell open. His eyes bulged wide, nearly tearing from their sockets.
[Exeunt]