บท 8: Chapter 8: The Chains of Defeat
The battlefield lay silent, save for the distant crackle of burning debris. The soldiers of Earth's last defense dropped their weapons in unison, the clanging of metal on the ground echoing like the tolling of a funeral bell. Their faces, flushed with shame and defeat, turned toward Azazel, their reluctant leader. His gaze was heavy, his hands trembling as the burden of surrender weighed upon him.
Abbadon, the infamous commander of the Emperor's elite forces, strode forward through the ranks of his troops, his black cape billowing behind him. His expression twisted into a cruel grin as he surveyed the prisoners, his sharp eyes gleaming with malice.
"Get them!" Abbadon barked, his voice cold and commanding.
The imperial soldiers moved swiftly, shackling the defeated and binding them in tight formations. Earth's soldiers stood frozen in terror, their knees weak as they were herded together like cattle. They knew not what awaited them—only that their future was painted in shades of despair and death.
Abbadon stopped before the group, his lip curling into a sneer. He studied their faces, taking in their hopeless expressions. His laughter erupted suddenly, harsh and mocking, slicing through the oppressive silence.
"Take a good look at yourselves!" he taunted. "Pathetic, every last one of you. Did you truly believe you could stand against the Emperor's will? Against the might of the Empire?"
He paused, his piercing gaze sweeping over the soldiers before he spat, "You feeble cunts. You dared to think you were something. You're nothing. Less than nothing. But don't worry," he said, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper, "I'll make sure you live just long enough to regret your pitiful rebellion. You'll die in agony, and I'll be there to enjoy every second of it."
Earth's soldiers remained silent, their heads bowed, unwilling to meet Abbadon's eyes. Among them, Azazel gritted his teeth, the weight of their defeat pressing down on his chest. He could feel the gaze of his men burning into him—disappointment, anger, despair.
Abbadon's expression darkened as his eyes searched the crowd. "Where is Lord Bolton?" he demanded. His voice thundered, echoing across the desolate field. "Where is your precious commander?"
No one answered. The silence was deafening.
Abbadon took a step closer, his hand resting on the blaster at his side. His gaze landed on a trembling soldier near the edge of the group. In an instant, Abbadon grabbed the man by the collar and yanked him forward.
"You," he snarled. "Where is Bolton?"
The soldier stammered, his lips moving but no words escaping.
Abbadon's patience snapped. "Are you deaf?!" he roared before pulling the trigger. The blaster's shot echoed like a thunderclap, and the soldier crumpled to the ground, his lifeless body lying in a heap.
The other prisoners flinched, some suppressing cries as the acrid smell of scorched flesh filled the air.
Abbadon's eyes darted to another soldier. He aimed his blaster at the trembling man. "You're next," he hissed. "Where is Bolton? Speak, or join your comrade in the dirt."
The soldier trembled, his voice barely above a whisper. "H-he's dead, Commander. Lord Bolton… he's dead."
Abbadon froze, his expression unreadable. A beat of silence passed before a wicked grin spread across his face. He began to laugh, a sound so cold and cruel it made the hair on the back of Azazel's neck stand on end.
"Dead, is he?" Abbadon said, his voice dripping with mockery. "What a shame. I would've liked to watch him die. Perhaps I'll imagine the look on his face as he begged for mercy."
He turned, his laughter continuing as he walked away, the sound echoing through the battlefield. His soldiers joined in, their cruel voices blending into a symphony of mockery.
Azazel's hands curled into fists at his sides. Anger burned in his chest, mixing with shame and grief. He wanted to scream, to fight, to tear Abbadon apart, but he couldn't. He was bound by the chains of surrender, his spirit crushed under the weight of their defeat.
Abbadon stopped and gestured toward his troops. "Let's get off this godforsaken planet," he ordered. "But leave a contingent behind. Station some of our forces here to keep the people in line. I wouldn't want any uprisings."
The soldiers saluted and began executing his commands.
Abbadon turned back to the prisoners one last time, his gaze piercing. "Send word to the Emperor," he said. "Tell him of our glorious victory. Tell him the Earth has fallen."
The imperial forces began herding the prisoners toward their transport ships. Earth's soldiers moved reluctantly, their heads bowed, their shoulders slumped.
Azazel walked among them, his mind racing. This wasn't over—not yet. Surrender had been their only choice to save the lives of the few who remained, but the war was far from finished. Deep in his heart, he clung to a fragile thread of hope.
He turned to his men, his voice steady despite the turmoil within him. "Brace yourselves," he said. "This is just the beginning."
The lights of the imperial ships illuminated the battlefield as the soldiers were taken aboard. The last remnants of Earth's resistance were now prisoners, their fate uncertain.
Above them, the smoke-filled sky remained as lifeless and oppressive as the ground beneath their feet. Earth had fallen, but somewhere in the hearts of its survivors, a spark still flickered—a spark that refused to be extinguished.
As the imperial ships ascended, carrying their prisoners into the vast void of space, the lights faded, leaving behind only silence and the haunting memory of a broken planet.
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