VENICE — NIGHTFALL
The moon was a knife over the lagoon. The city's whispers had turned into headlines.
> ROSA VALENTI — QUEEN OF CHARITY, PRINCESS OF FRAUD
VALENTI EMPIRE BUILT ON BLOODSHARES
SECRET DEALS WITH FOREIGN MERCENARIES LEAKED
Yug watched from the terrace of the Contessa Hotel, cigarette burning slow between his fingers.
The world's seven largest economies were moving like wolves. Italy froze Rosa's assets. France revoked her trade licenses. Germany initiated parliamentary hearings. Even Japan leaked intelligence dossiers tying her to offshore laundering and weapons procurement.
It wasn't just exposure — it was surgical annihilation.
His phone rang once. Omar.
He didn't answer.
Mercy had left the building hours ago.
Yug's voice was quiet as he gave the last command to his AI handler:
> "Initiate Cicada Protocol. Erase her liquidity, trace every wallet, and flood her networks with evidence."
Within an hour, Rosa Valenti ceased to exist as a functioning entity. Her accounts were redacted, her digital identity devoured.
She'd been a queen. Now she was noise.
Outside the hotel, the sound of gunfire echoed faintly — Rosa's bodyguards trying one last desperate stand in a nearby alley. Yug didn't flinch. The noise didn't reach him anymore.
He'd chosen this kind of silence.
By midnight, the feeds were full. The world had a new villain, and Yug Bhati's name wasn't anywhere on the pages. He was the ghost author of destruction, drinking mineral water and watching the world forget who pulled the trigger.
But in the corner of his mind, a shadow flickered.
Rourke hadn't checked in for 24 hours.
ALGERIA — FORT ATLAS
Sandstorm sky. The desert was moving like it wanted to bury the world.
Rourke stood before the command post, wind biting into his skin. The last report from logistics was grim: half their artillery destroyed, fuel depots burned, 30,000 men missing or defected.
Enemy militias had swarmed their southern perimeter — an unholy alliance of state-backed forces and merc groups smelling blood.
"Ninety thousand left," said Lena Vorsk quietly, eyes red from sleeplessness.
"And barely two months' fuel. Fort Idris is gone."
Rourke nodded. He didn't show anger — just that flat, calculating look that made men around him fall silent.
He'd rebuilt two fortresses from dust. He'd held a region with logistics and grit. And now he was watching it crumble because Yug was busy playing god in Europe.
Inside the ops tent, the radio crackled. One of Yug's field assistants — a tall, quiet man named Marcel — had arrived two days ago "to assist with coordination."
Rourke had seen that phrase before. Coordination was code for surveillance.
That night, Rourke woke to the sound of steel — Marcel moving near his cot, suppressor glinting faintly in the dark.
Instinct overtook thought.
A knife, a blur, a single wet breath.
When the lights came on, Marcel was dead — his eyes wide, gun still warm in his hand.
Rourke stared at the body for a long time. He didn't speak. He didn't panic.
He just whispered to the air:
"You sent him, didn't you, Yug?"
VENICE — THE WARNING
Back in Venice, Yug received a transmission at 2:04 A.M.
[URGENT—CLASSIFIED]
MARCELO — SIGNAL LOST. BIO TAG OFFLINE. FORT ATLAS UNRESPONSIVE.
He leaned back, eyes narrowing. His mind didn't race — it measured.
If Rourke had killed his man, that meant one thing: distrust had turned to defiance.
"Activate Parallax Protocol," he said to his assistant. "Lock all Fort Atlas accounts. Cut their operational supply chains. Pull every external fund."
The assistant hesitated. "That will strand them, sir."
Yug's voice was glass.
"Then they learn who owns oxygen.
ALGERIA — DISSENT
Morning brought nothing but wind.
Rourke stood in front of the assembled officers.
> "Command chain's gone silent," one muttered.
"Funding's frozen," said another.
"Then we unfund ourselves," Rourke growled.
He walked into the command tent, unplugged the encrypted receiver, and smashed it against the floor. Then he turned to Lena.
> "We're on our own now. Atlas belongs to us."
The officers stared — half afraid, half exhilarated.
Rourke stepped to the comms panel and recorded a message on an open frequency:
> "This is Commander Rourke. Effective immediately, Fort Atlas and all remaining divisions are under autonomous command. We hold 90,000 troops, heavy ordnance, and supply lines. Any further interference from external command will be treated as hostile. Long live the Atlas."
He sent it. The message bounced across Africa, encrypted, re-encrypted, intercepted, decoded — and finally landed in Yug's network, like a dagger in the chest.
Yug read it in silence. Then he smiled, small and cold.
> "So be it."
---
CLOSING IMAGE
Night fell on both men.
In Venice, Yug stood before a burning screen, Rosa's empire in ruins.
In Algeria, Rourke stood before burning sand, his own fortress surrounded by enemies.
Two leaders, same breed, different code.
One ruled with control.
The other ruled with conviction.
Now they ruled in fear of each other.
The war outside was nothing compared to the one between them.
End of Chapter 9.