The retreat through the forest was worse this time.

Much worse.

The brigands were no longer running as a fighting force.

Now they were survivors.

Broken survivors.

Men crashed through the undergrowth while throwing away shields, bows, and even weapons just to move faster. Some stumbled blindly through the darkness with blood pouring from wounds while others screamed for people who were already dead.

Daren could barely feel his left arm anymore.

Blood soaked the sleeve where splinters from shattered wood and grazing rounds tore into the flesh earlier near the wagon wreck. Every step hurt now, but adrenaline kept him moving through the forest.

Behind him, distant thunder-like cracks still echoed faintly from the direction of Falmouth.

Not thunder.

Rifles.

Machine guns.

Death.

Marrick nearly tripped beside him while breathing hard.

"We lost everyone..."

"Keep moving," Daren snapped.

"Garron’s gone!"

That made Daren finally look back.

The forest behind them looked empty.

No shouting.

No commands.

No huge figure carrying an axe through the trees.

Nothing.

Daren’s stomach tightened.

The brigand force had completely collapsed during the second assault.

Groups broke apart.

Men fled separately.

And somewhere in that slaughter—

Garron vanished.

Whether dead or alive, Daren had no idea.

Several survivors eventually regrouped deeper inside the forest beside a shallow creek hidden beneath dense trees. Only around twelve men remained together now.

Twelve.

From over seventy.

Nobody spoke for several seconds.

Most looked numb.

One brigand suddenly sat down heavily against a tree and started laughing weakly.

Not normal laughter.

Broken laughter.

"They hunted us..."

Nobody answered him.

Because everyone knew it was true.

Daren leaned against a tree while trying to steady his breathing.

The image kept replaying in his mind.

The flare turning night into daylight.

The machine guns shredding men apart.

The calm silhouettes along the walls firing into them like executioners.

One wounded survivor finally whispered:

"We can’t go back."

Another nodded immediately.

"There’s nothing left."

Marrick looked toward Daren quietly.

"What do we do now?"

Daren already knew the answer.

There was only one place left.

"The Black Hollow."

Several brigands looked up immediately after hearing that name.

One visibly paled.

"You serious?"

Daren nodded once.

"If Garron’s dead, we report to the Hollow."

Nobody liked that answer.

But nobody argued either.

Because the Black Hollow was not merely a hideout.

It was headquarters.

The real organization behind the brigands.

Most low-ranking raiders never even saw it.

Daren only visited once years ago after successfully leading several caravan ambushes. Deep within the western mountains hidden beneath abandoned ruins, the Hollow served as a meeting point, supply depot, and command center for the entire criminal network operating across multiple regions.

And if Falmouth destroyed Garron’s force—

The people in the Hollow needed to know.

Marrick swallowed quietly.

"They’ll kill us for failing."

Daren stared into the darkness.

"They’ll kill us faster if we disappear."

That ended the discussion.

The survivors slowly regrouped and continued moving westward through the forest.

Above them, invisible against the night sky, the Predator drone tracked everything.

Its infrared optics followed the surviving brigands easily through the canopy breaks and heat signatures below.

Inside the command center of Falmouth, Marcus watched the drone feed quietly.

One operator adjusted the tracking overlays.

"Surviving hostile elements regrouping."

Marcus studied the screen carefully.

The surviving brigands moved differently now.

Not randomly.

Not panicked.

Purposeful.

Good.

Exactly what he wanted.

Another operator zoomed the thermal feed slightly.

"Twelve confirmed survivors moving west."

Marcus nodded once.

"Keep tracking."

The operator continued monitoring movement through the forests while the drone maintained altitude far beyond visual or audible detection range.

Marcus leaned slightly over the operations table.

"They’re heading somewhere."

Not maybe.

Definitely.

The movement pattern was too direct.

Too intentional.

One Atlas operator looked toward him.

"You think there’s another camp?"

Marcus folded his arms lightly.

"No."

Then he looked back toward the feed.

"I think there’s something bigger."

The surviving brigands moved for hours.

The forest slowly changed around them the farther west they traveled. Dense trees eventually gave way to rougher terrain filled with jagged stone ridges and steep slopes covered by old ruins swallowed by vines and moss.

The moon had started sinking lower when Daren finally raised one hand.

"Stop."

The survivors halted immediately.

Ahead of them stood a massive rock formation partially hidden beneath hanging vines and old crumbling stone walls.

Ruins.

Ancient ones.

Broken pillars rose from the earth nearby while collapsed stairways disappeared beneath weeds and dirt.

To outsiders, it looked abandoned.

To the brigands—

It was a checkpoint.

One survivor looked nervous.

"They’ll let us in?"

Daren stepped forward carefully.

"If they already know Garron failed, maybe."

That answer did not comfort anyone.

Daren approached the ruins slowly before stopping near a cracked stone archway.

Then he spoke loudly into the darkness.

"Black route returning."

Silence followed.

Several survivors shifted nervously behind him.

Then suddenly—

Movement.

Figures emerged silently from hidden positions among the ruins.

Crossbows aimed downward immediately.

Not ordinary brigands.

These men wore dark leather armor reinforced with chain sections while black cloth covered parts of their faces. Disciplined. Silent. Organized.

One of them stepped forward.

"Identify yourself."

"Daren. Garron’s southern scouting division."

The masked guard looked toward the survivors behind him.

"What happened?"

Daren hesitated briefly.

Then answered honestly.

"Falmouth happened."

That answer caused visible tension among the guards.

One lowered his crossbow slightly.

"The city fought back?"

Daren laughed bitterly.

"No."

Another pause.

"Something else did."

The guards exchanged glances afterward.

One finally motioned toward the ruins.

"Move."

The survivors obeyed immediately.

They passed through the ruined archway and descended beneath the ancient structure through hidden stone corridors lit by torchlight.

Marrick stared quietly while walking beside Daren.

The Hollow looked even larger than before.

More organized too.

Storage rooms lined the underground halls. Weapons crates rested near stone chambers while armed personnel moved through the corridors carrying ledgers, supplies, and messages. 𝒻𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝘯𝘰𝑣ℯ𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝘮

This was not a random criminal camp.

This was infrastructure.

An organization.

Daren noticed several men near the lower chamber wearing merchant clothing instead of brigand gear.

Information brokers probably.

Or smugglers.

The criminal network stretched far beyond highway raids.

One of the survivors whispered quietly:

"Gods..."

Marrick answered softly.

"They really are everywhere."

Daren said nothing.

Because honestly—

Seeing the Hollow again after Falmouth felt different now.

Smaller somehow.

Not physically.

Mentally.

Because for the first time in years—

Daren no longer felt these people controlled the situation.

Far above the ruins, hidden beyond clouds and darkness, the Predator drone continued circling silently.

Inside Falmouth’s command center, the live thermal feed now displayed the ruined mountain structure clearly.

One Atlas operator stared at the screen.

"...That’s not a brigand camp."

Marcus nodded slowly.

No.

It wasn’t.

The drone tracked multiple heat signatures across the underground entrance points and ruined structures above.

Guard patrols.

Storage movement.

Animals.

Supply activity.

Far too large for surviving brigands alone.

Marcus studied the thermal overlays carefully.

"This is organized infrastructure."

Another operator zoomed toward one section.

Additional heat signatures appeared deeper inside the ruins.

Dozens.

Marcus’s eyes narrowed slightly.

There it was.

Confirmation.

Falmouth was never dealing with random raiders.

This was a regional criminal organization operating from hidden strongholds.

One Atlas operator looked toward Marcus.

"What now?"

Marcus stayed quiet for several seconds while studying the ruins.

Then finally spoke.

"Now we remove them."

The operator immediately understood.

Air strike.

Marcus picked up the radio handset near the command table.

"Contact Atlas base."

Static crackled briefly before a voice answered.

"Atlas Base receiving."

Marcus looked toward the thermal feed again.

The ruined stronghold glowed across the screen like exposed prey.

"Scramble close air support."

A short pause followed.

Then the voice answered:

"Specify asset."

Marcus’s expression remained calm.

"A-10 Warthog."

The operations room became quieter immediately afterward.

Even some Atlas personnel nearby looked slightly tense now.

Because everyone there understood what that meant.

The brigands at Falmouth suffered against rifles and machine guns.

An A-10 strike?

That would become extermination.

Back at Atlas base far away from Falmouth, alarms began sounding inside the operational hangar.

Ground crews immediately moved into action while floodlights illuminated the parked aircraft waiting inside the reinforced structure.

The A-10 Warthog rested beneath the lights like a predator waking up.

Twin turbofan engines mounted high over the fuselage.

Heavy reinforced armor plating.

Massive straight wings designed for low-altitude attack runs.

And at the nose—

The GAU-8 Avenger rotary cannon.

A weapon built specifically to annihilate ground targets.

Crew personnel moved quickly around the aircraft while loading crews prepared ammunition and conducting rapid pre-flight checks.

The pilot climbed the ladder toward the cockpit while another crew member handed him final mission data.

"Target designation uploaded."

The pilot nodded.

"Fuel?"

"Full."

"Ordnance?"

"Loaded and confirmed."

The pilot glanced toward the dark horizon beyond the hangar.

Then climbed fully into the cockpit.

Far away in the underground ruins, Daren and the surviving brigands still had absolutely no idea they had already led Atlas directly to the heart of the organization.

And somewhere high above the mountains, death was already on its way.