Fort Santiago, Interrogation Chamber
Night cloaked the ancient walls of Fort Santiago, its stone corridors echoing with the weight of history and whispered confessions. Beneath its surface, in the depths where light struggled to reach, an iron door groaned open, casting a beam of cold, sterile light into the darkness. Inside, the air was thick with tension, heavy with the scent of damp stone and restrained fear.
Gabriella Aurelia Mendez stepped into the chamber, her presence commanding, her gaze sharp as steel. Clad in the dark uniform of the empire, her gloved hands were folded behind her back, her boots clicking against the ancient floor as she approached the table where the prisoners sat. Her expression was unreadable—cold, calculating, as impassive as the stone walls around her.
Across from her sat the captured USNA operatives—Captain Marcus Caldwell, his jaw clenched tight, eyes sharp with defiance. Beside him, Lieutenant Sarah Whitaker, bruised but unbroken, her posture rigid. And Sergeant Daniel Reyes, his face pale, shadows beneath his eyes betraying the toll of sleepless nights and relentless questioning.
Standing behind Gabriella was Major Isabel Navarro, a sharp-eyed woman with a scar running beneath her left cheek. Beside her, Captain Liana Cruz, her posture rigid, her gaze cold as she observed the prisoners. Both were loyal to the empire, handpicked for this moment.
Gabriella's voice broke the silence, calm and lethal.
"Captain Caldwell. Lieutenant Whitaker. Sergeant Reyes." She let the names hang in the air, tasting their weight. "You've been our guests for far longer than you deserve. And yet, you remain silent. Loyal."
Caldwell's lips twitched into a faint smirk. "Loyalty isn't a crime. Not yet."
Gabriella's eyes narrowed. She stepped closer, resting her gloved hand on the table's edge.
"It is when it costs thousands of lives. When it extends a war that could have ended months ago." Her gaze shifted to Reyes, who flinched beneath her scrutiny. "You know this isn't sustainable. Your people have abandoned you. Your resistance failed."
Whitaker's voice was low, edged with defiance. "We didn't fail. You haven't won. You're drowning in the ashes you've created, Mendez."
Gabriella's smile was cold, sharp. "Singapore belongs to us. Malaysia belongs to us. You're the ashes, Lieutenant."
Reyes shifted in his chair, his gaze falling to the table, hands trembling slightly as he fought to maintain composure. Isabel Navarro watched him, her eyes sharp. She stepped forward, voice cold as frost.
"It's over, Sergeant. Your country has forsaken you. Why protect ghosts?"
Caldwell's head snapped up, his voice hard. "They haven't abandoned us. You think this is over, but it's just beginning."
Gabriella tilted her head, considering him. "And what makes you so sure?"
Silence fell. A long, heavy pause. Reyes' shoulders tensed, his gaze flickering toward his captain, uncertain. A muscle twitched along Caldwell's jaw, but he said nothing. Whitaker's stare didn't falter, but the air between them grew heavier.
Gabriella's smile didn't fade. She leaned in, her voice dropping to a low, venomous whisper.
"You're already broken. You just don't realize it yet."
"You came a long way to fight a war that isn't yours, Tell me, was it worth it?"
Caldwell met her gaze, his jaw clenched. "We're here to stop tyrants. To stop you."
Gabriella's smile was cold and slow. "Tyrants?" She circled the table, the echo of her steps filling the chamber. "Or perhaps you're here to protect your investments? Your trade routes? Your precious influence over this region?"
Whitaker's jaw tightened. "We're here to protect people. To stop monsters like you from turning Southeast Asia into a graveyard."
Gabriella chuckled, but there was no humor in it. She paused, leaning forward, her hands resting lightly on the table's edge.
"Is that what she told you?"
The operatives stilled. Caldwell's eyes narrowed. "Who?"
Gabriella's gaze sharpened, her words slicing through the air.
"Don't pretend. You know her name. Angelina Kudou Shields. Or do you prefer Angie Sirius?"
Silence. Heavy and sharp. Whitaker's eyes flickered, shock breaking her composure for the first time. Caldwell's hand twitched, fists clenching beneath the restraints. Reyes stared, wide-eyed, disbelief etched across his face.
Gabriella's smile deepened. "Ah, so you didn't expect that, did you?" She circled the table again, her gaze lingering like a blade pressed to skin. "You're not the first shadows she's sent. The great Sirius, hiding behind operatives while she watches from across the ocean. Does she still pretend to be your protector? Or just your handler?"
Whitaker's voice broke the silence, sharp and controlled, but there was uncertainty beneath the surface. "How do you know her?"
Gabriella's eyes gleamed, but her face remained still. "We've met." She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Long ago, on a battlefield far from here. She was just as arrogant then. Just as ruthless." Her gaze flicked to Reyes, who swallowed hard. "But even she knows better than to face me directly."
Caldwell's composure cracked, his voice low and tense. "She'll come for us. When she finds out what you've done—"
Gabriella's laughter was cold. "She already knows. And she's done nothing."
The words hit like a hammer.
"Singapore is gone. Malaysia is gone. And your precious USNA?" Gabriella's gaze bored into them, sharp and unyielding. "It's just another nation that will kneel or burn. Sirius won't save you."
For a moment, there was silence. Then, Reyes' voice, soft and uncertain. "You're lying."
Gabriella's expression didn't falter. "Am I?" She turned sharply, stepping back. "She fights her wars with whispers and shadows. I fight mine with fire and steel."
She glanced over her shoulder. "And you're nothing but her pawns."
With that, Gabriella motioned to Navarro. "Take them back. Tomorrow, we'll find out which of you breaks first."
Navarro stepped forward as soldiers moved to drag the prisoners to their feet. But as they were led away, Caldwell's voice echoed in the chamber, raw and filled with fury.
"She'll come." His eyes locked with Gabriella's. "And when she does, you'll regret underestimating her."
Gabriella's gaze was unreadable, but as the heavy doors slammed shut, her expression lingered in the darkness—cold, calculating, and certain.
"Let her come," she whispered to the silence. "I'll be waiting."
The heavy iron door slammed shut, leaving the stone-walled room drenched in silence. The shadows of the departing soldiers lingered in the air like ghosts.
Gabriella Aurelia Mendez stood still, her arms folded behind her back, her sharp eyes fixed on the door as if she could still see the prisoners on the other side.
Beside her, Major Isabel Navarro and Captain Liana Cruz remained silent, their expressions hard, their postures rigid. The air still hummed with tension, the name Angelina Kudou Shields lingering like a blade between them.
It was Navarro who broke the silence first, her voice low and edged with curiosity.
"You've met Angie Sirius?"
Gabriella's gaze didn't shift, her expression unreadable. "Once."
Liana Cruz's brow furrowed, her arms crossed over her chest. "Why didn't you tell us?"
Gabriella's eyes finally turned, sharp and cold. "Because it didn't matter. Not until now."
Navarro frowned, her gaze flicking to the sealed door. "They didn't expect you to know her. They were shaken."
"Good," Gabriella said simply, stepping away from the table, her boots clicking against the stone floor. "Fear will break them faster than pain." She paused, her gaze distant for a moment. "And fear is all Sirius understands."
"But she's dangerous," Cruz pressed. "More dangerous than most. If she's involved, this could escalate."
Gabriella turned slowly, her stare pinning Cruz in place.
"She's already involved. The USNA thinks they can hide behind shadows and operatives, meddling in affairs that don't concern them." Her lips curled into a faint, bitter smile. "But they've underestimated us. They've underestimated me."
Navarro hesitated. "And what if Sirius does come?"
Gabriella's gaze narrowed, her voice sharp as a blade. "Then I'll remind her who she's dealing with."
There was a pause, heavy and tense, before Cruz stepped forward, her expression tight.
"You said you've faced her before. What happened?"
Gabriella's eyes darkened, though her posture remained composed. "We crossed paths during an operation long ago. She underestimated me then. I left her with scars." Her voice dropped, cold and quiet. "Scars I intend to finish this time."
Navarro's eyes narrowed, her curiosity sharpening. "What operation? What was she doing?"
Gabriella's gaze drifted, her mind momentarily trapped in the shadow of old memories. "She was in Japan," she said softly, each word deliberate. "Eight years ago. Under a false name. Pretending to be someone she wasn't, playing her little game while hunting ghosts in the shadows."
Cruz's brow furrowed. "Japan?"
Gabriella nodded once, her jaw tight. "She was sent there to neutralize a threat. To erase something her country didn't understand. Something they feared. She called it an investigation, but it was far more than that. And she wasn't alone." Her lips curled into a cold smile. "She's never truly alone. Even when she hides behind her masks."
There was a silence that lingered, thick with unsaid truths.
"I studied her files," Gabriella continued. "Every documents, every mission she accepted, every targets she killed, She wasn't just investigating anomalies; she was securing power. She was there to ensure the USNA's influence remained untouched. And now…" Her gaze flicked to the sealed door, her smile sharpening like a blade. "Now she's meddling in our empire. Again."
Cruz's expression darkened. "If she's trying to interfere with our expansion—"
"She is," Gabriella cut in sharply. "She thinks hiding behind proxies and covert operatives will mask her intentions. That she can slip into our borders unnoticed. But I know her game. I know how she moves. And I know she's watching."
Navarro crossed her arms, her voice low. "And what do you intend to do?"
Gabriella's eyes gleamed. "I intend to crush her ambitions before they take root. If she plans to intervene, I'll make sure she's reminded why the empire stands undefeated. If she moves against us, she'll bleed for it."
She turned slowly, pacing the room, her mind calculating each move like pieces on a warboard. "I saw what she did in Japan—how she fought, how she adapted. She's dangerous, but not invincible. She failed to control the chaos there. She failed to stop the forces she was sent to destroy. She failed… because she underestimated the enemy."
She paused, her voice lowering. "Just like she underestimates me now."
Navarro hesitated, a flicker of doubt in her eyes. "If she comes directly—"
"She won't," Gabriella interrupted. "She'll stay in the shadows, sending her dogs. But when she does step forward—when she finally realizes she can't win from afar—I'll be there. Waiting."
Her gaze hardened, sharp and unyielding. "And this time, I won't just leave scars."
For a moment, silence filled the chamber, the weight of Gabriella's words settling over them like the thick stones of the fortress walls.
Then, without turning, Gabriella spoke again, her voice calm but resolute. "Prepare our forces. If Sirius dares step into my empire again, I want her to know… there is nowhere left for her to run."
"The empire will take Brunei within a week, And once it falls, our gaze will turn to Papua New Guinea."
The words echoed in the chamber, cold and heavy. Navarro and Cruz exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable, but neither dared to question the declaration.
"It's a matter of time," Gabriella continued, her tone sharp as a blade. "Brunei's defenses are weak, and their alliances are nothing but shadows. Their wealth, their oil, their influence—they will all belong to the empire soon."
Cruz stepped forward, her arms crossed. "And Papua New Guinea? Their terrain is hostile. Their people—"
"Will bend, just like the others," Gabriella interrupted, her gaze sharp. "They will see the banners rise, feel the weight of our presence, and they will kneel. Or they will burn."
Navarro hesitated, her voice low. "And if the world intervenes?"
Gabriella's smile was faint, but her eyes were cold. "Let them." She turned, her steps echoing against the stone. "The world watched us take Malaysia. Watched us crush Singapore. Watched as nations fell in our wake. And they did nothing." She paused, her gaze flicking back to them. "They won't stop us now. Not when we strike with precision. Not when we end this war before it begins."
Navarro studied her for a moment, then nodded. "I'll begin preparations. The coastal blockade will be ready within forty-eight hours."
Cruz stepped forward. "And Papua New Guinea?"
Gabriella's eyes gleamed. "Once Brunei falls, we turn our attention east. The jungles won't save them. Their alliances won't save them. We'll burn a path through their strongholds and leave nothing but ash."
Silence settled, heavy and final.
"And when the dust clears," Gabriella added softly, her gaze distant, "they will understand that resistance is not survival. It's defiance against inevitability."
Her voice echoed, sharp and cold, as she turned on her heel. "Prepare the fleets. Within a month, the empire will stretch from the Straits to the Pacific."
And without another word, she left the chamber, her footsteps fading into the shadowed corridors of Fort Santiago.
___
The war machine of the IFRP was a relentless beast, grinding nations beneath its tread, fueled by conquest and blood. And now, with Southeast Asia groaning beneath its weight, the empire's gaze turned toward its next prize—a small but wealthy nation, untouched by war but rich in the lifeblood of power.
Brunei.
Nestled along the northern coast of Borneo, it stood like a jewel, its wealth drawn from the depths of the earth. Vast oil fields stretched beneath its soil, pumping black gold into the world's arteries. Gas reserves fueled industries across the globe. Brunei was small, yes—but it was a fortress of economic power, one that could sustain the IFRP's growing hunger for war.
And that made it a target.
Within the cold, gleaming walls of the Grand Dominion, IFRP High Command gathered. Maps stretched across the war table, oil reserves marked in stark red, trade routes crisscrossing the coasts. Advisors spoke in cold, clipped tones, their words sharp as steel.
Brunei held the keys to future conquest. Fuel for ships, for aircraft, for the armored beasts that would crush the next frontier. Without it, the empire's expansion would slow. With it, their might would be unstoppable.
The choice was inevitable. The invasion, unavoidable.
But Brunei was not blind.
Within the gilded halls of the royal palace, Sultan Hassanal Bolkiah stood defiant. His wealth was immense, his nation small, but his pride unbroken. Envoys warned of the approaching storm, but the Sultan refused to bow. Messages were sent to Western nations, pleas for intervention carried across oceans.
But they were met with silence.
The world watched but did not move. The United States and Western allies, though concerned, hesitated. Fear of global escalation. Fear of entanglement. Fear of the empire's wrath. Their warnings were words without action, their promises thin as paper.
And Brunei stood alone.
---
In the shadow of this heavy silence, the IFRP prepared for the final blow.
Troop transports groaned beneath the weight of armored vehicles and soldiers, their decks crowded with warriors steeled for the coming storm. Naval fleets stirred in the harbors, the black hulls of dreadnoughts and carriers slicing through the waters like predators scenting blood. Guns were primed, missiles loaded, and orders given with cold precision.
Above, the skies churned with the thunder of engines. Imperial bombers circled like dark omens, their holds heavy with death. Fighters streaked overhead, sharp and eager, ready to clear the skies for the slaughter to come. The air trembled with the promise of devastation, a storm gathering on the horizon.
Diplomacy was over. There would be no more talks, no more offers. Only steel, fire, and conquest. The invasion was inevitable, a blade poised to strike.
___
The first strike came not with bombs, but with silence.
From the horizon, shadows crept across the South China Sea as the IFRP's Imperial Navy moved into position. Dreadnoughts, black and imposing, carved paths through the waters, their hulls bristling with cannons and missile batteries. Destroyers flanked them like wolves, while submarines lurked beneath the waves, unseen but deadly.
And then, the blockade began.
No ship entered. No ship left.
Trade routes were severed with brutal, surgical precision. Brunei's lifeline—its intricate network of global exports and critical imports—was choked in a single, decisive stroke. The empire's blockade tightened like a noose, cutting off the nation's breath.
Supply vessels, their hulls marked with foreign flags, were halted at sea, imperial warships looming like predators beneath storm-dark skies. Warnings were brief, cold, and absolute: turn back or be annihilated. Some vessels fled, engines straining to escape. Others hesitated and paid the price, disappearing beneath the waves in plumes of smoke and fire.
Oil tankers, heavy with black gold destined for international markets, were intercepted and turned away. The empire's shadow stretched across every horizon, forcing global traders to retreat, leaving Brunei's wealth trapped, its economy strangled. Deals dissolved, contracts shattered, and the once-flourishing arteries of commerce ran dry.
In the ports of Bandar Seri Begawan, silence reigned. Cranes stood motionless against the sky, their skeletal frames like monuments to a dying trade. Docks that once echoed with the grind of industry and the shouts of workers now lay empty, abandoned. Ships that remained were ghostly silhouettes, their hulls rusting beneath salt and silence.
The message was clear: Brunei's isolation was complete. The empire controlled the seas, the skies, and the future. And beneath that shadow, survival became a question of submission.
The world watched. Concerned. Hesitant. But no hand moved to intervene.
Brunei's pleas fell upon deaf ears.
---
And then came the fire.
From the decks of the Imperial Dreadnoughts, the order was given, and the air trembled beneath the roar of artillery. Shells rained upon the coastline, striking with calculated brutality.
Oil refineries erupted in fire, their steel frames twisted into blackened skeletons. Storage tanks burst beneath the bombardment, sending rivers of crude oil seeping into the earth, staining the waters with the empire's advance. Government installations crumbled beneath the relentless assault—communications hubs shattered, military barracks reduced to ruin.
The ground quaked with every impact, the air heavy with smoke and the stench of burning oil.
And Brunei's defenses—what little remained—stood powerless.
Brunei's defense crumbled beneath the empire's onslaught. Their navy, small and outmatched, was the first to fall. Patrol ships, sleek but fragile, were torn apart beneath precision missile strikes. Fire blossomed across the waves, steel hulls split open, and plumes of black smoke marked the graves of ships swallowed by the sea. Crews fought to the last, but courage was no shield against the empire's firepower.
In the skies, their modest air force faltered. Outnumbered and outdated, their fighters were hunted down, engines roaring in desperate maneuvers before they were torn from the sky. One by one, they fell in burning arcs, crashing into the sea or the earth, leaving only trails of smoke to mark their defiance.
On the ground, anti-aircraft batteries stood as relics of a past conflict—old, under-equipped, and ill-prepared for the empire's wrath. Before they could even fire, they were destroyed in thunderous strikes. Bombs fell with brutal precision, reducing them to twisted metal and smoldering craters. The soldiers manning them died at their posts, their final moments spent beneath the shadow of fire they could not stop.
It was a slaughter, swift and merciless. Defense lines shattered, hope extinguished in the roar of engines and the crash of steel. The empire's message was written in smoke and ruin: resistance was not just futile—it was annihilation.
---
But the empire's assault did not end with bombardment.
Beneath the cover of darkness, IFRP's elite commando units struck. Moving through the shadows, they cut through the blockade, deploying silently into the waters surrounding Brunei's offshore oil rigs. Clad in black, they climbed the towering structures like specters, rifles glinting beneath the moonlight.
And one by one, the rigs fell.
Sabotage teams moved like shadows, swift and silent, slipping through Brunei's defenses with lethal precision. Under cover of darkness, they disabled security systems with a surgeon's touch—circuits sliced, cameras blacked out, alarms silenced before they could scream. Guards were dispatched in the stillness, throats slit, bodies crumpling soundlessly into the dirt. Each kill was a cold calculation, every step a methodical advance deeper into the heart of Brunei's lifeblood.
Control rooms, once guarded and secure, fell in a matter of minutes. Doors breached, operators neutralized, and terminals seized. The glow of monitors illuminated grim faces as imperial specialists worked with ruthless efficiency, overriding codes and seizing control. Extraction systems were reprogrammed, pipelines rerouted, valves turned by hands that knew exactly where to strike.
And just like that, Brunei's oil was no longer its own. The empire took control, siphoning away the nation's wealth to feed its insatiable war machine. Tankers that once carried Brunei's prosperity now sailed beneath imperial banners, their holds heavy with stolen black gold.
Within hours, the transformation was complete. What had fueled a nation now fueled its conqueror. The empire's grip was absolute, its reach unstoppable. Brunei's lifeblood flowed eastward, not as a symbol of commerce, but as the spoils of conquest.
And the rigs, those towering monuments to Brunei's wealth, became symbols of imperial conquest.
By dawn, the message was clear.
Brunei's lifeline was severed. Its resources, its strength, its hope—taken.
And though the sultan still stood defiant behind palace walls, the empire's grip was tightening.
For in war, mercy is weakness. And the empire had none to give.
___
The skies above Bandar Seri Begawan trembled as reality itself began to tear.
At the heart of the approaching storm stood Gabriella Aurelia Mendez, her hand raised as ancient magic flared beneath her fingertips. The Imperial Gate shimmered into existence—a rift of blinding light and shadow that split the air, its edges crackling with raw power. The capital's skyline reflected its glow, a silent herald of the devastation to come.
And from the depths of the rift, the IFRP descended.
Soldiers poured forth from the Gate, an unstoppable tide of steel and shadow that swept into Brunei with merciless precision. Armored divisions surged onto the city streets, their treads grinding against the pavement, engines growling like predators. Cannons swiveled, seeking targets, while heavy guns barked fire into the depths of the city, tearing through stone and steel with brutal ease.
Magicians stepped through the Gate with eyes sharp and cold, their hands crackling with restrained power. Cloaked in shimmering wards, they moved with purpose, ready to unleash destruction that would reduce defenses to ash and ruin. With a mere gesture, walls could crumble, barricades could burn, and men could fall screaming beneath the weight of arcane fire.
And behind them came the Tamaraw cavalry, their armored beasts snorting as they took their first thunderous steps into Brunei's heart. Massive and brutal, their hooves shattered the ground beneath them, lances gleaming like silver death. Their riders, armored and grim, scanned the horizon for their prey. They were not just soldiers—they were the storm that would break Brunei's spirit.
The city quaked beneath the invasion, its defenders scrambling, its streets echoing with the roar of engines, the crash of magic, and the heavy thunder of charging beasts. The empire had arrived, not as conquerors, but as executioners. And they would claim their prize with blood and fire.
The invasion had begun, not from the coast, but from within.
---
Panic swept through Bandar Seri Begawan like wildfire.
Brunei's Royal Armed Forces scrambled to respond, their soldiers racing to defensive positions as alarms howled through the streets. But they were too late. The enemy was already here, cutting through the city's heart like a blade through flesh.
Bullets rang out, sharp and desperate, their echoes ricocheting off marble facades and stone streets. Brunei's soldiers fought with unwavering valor, their rifles steady, their eyes hard with defiance. They held their lines beneath the shadow of the empire's advance, crouching behind barricades of sandbags and debris, firing into the tide of steel and shadow. Every shot was a prayer, every burst of fire a stand against the inevitable. Yet, courage alone was a fragile shield against the empire's might.
IFRP soldiers moved with ruthless precision, their formations tight, their advance relentless. Clad in armor that shrugged off small-arms fire, they pressed forward without hesitation, each step a declaration of imperial dominance. Brunei's bullets sparked harmlessly against reinforced plating, bouncing away as if defiance itself could not touch them. They were machines of war, unstoppable and cold, sweeping aside resistance with disciplined brutality.
And behind them came the magicians, cloaked in shimmering wards, their eyes alight with controlled fury. Barriers of crackling energy rippled into existence, deflecting bullets with contemptuous ease. When they struck, they did so with terrifying finality. Lances of compressed mana tore through barricades like paper, disintegrating defenders in flashes of burning light. Concrete buckled, metal melted, and men fell, their screams lost beneath the roar of destruction.
The streets, once quiet avenues of daily life, became killing grounds. Blood pooled in the gutters, staining the earth red beneath the empire's march. Bodies lay crumpled where they had fallen, their last stand marking the line between defiance and annihilation. The ground shook beneath the thunder of artillery fire, shells pounding the earth, reducing entire blocks to dust and ruin. Government buildings, once symbols of sovereignty, collapsed beneath the barrage, their proud walls shattered, their legacies crumbled into rubble.
The air was thick with smoke and the cries of the wounded. Fires roared in the distance, devouring homes and memories alike. The stench of blood and burning metal hung heavy, choking the breath of those who remained. The living stumbled through the haze, dragging the fallen, searching for shelter that no longer existed. Yet even as the world burned, Brunei's soldiers fought on, their courage a spark refusing to die.
And above it all, the Sultan's palace stood silhouetted against the fires of its own destruction. Its gilded domes and towering spires, once a beacon of power and pride, were now a monument to ruin. Flames licked at its edges, smoke curling into the darkened sky. The empire had come, not just to conquer, but to erase. And as the palace crumbled, so too did the last echoes of Brunei's defiance.
---
Inside the palace, chaos reigned.
Sultan Hassanal Bolkiah stood in defiance beneath the golden domes, surrounded by his loyal guards. His hands trembled—not with fear, but with rage. His voice rang out, urging his men to hold, to fight for every street, every stone. But the walls shook beneath the thunder of artillery. Explosions echoed closer, and the shouts of battle grew louder.
The final order was given. Retreat.
The Sultan and his government fled beneath the veil of night, slipping through secret passages, escaping into the shadows. They sought refuge in the depths of the jungle, believing the empire's hand could not reach them there.
But the empire did not rest.
---
Gabriella Aurelia Mendez stood atop the palace steps as the imperial flag was raised over its golden spires. Her eyes were cold as they swept the burning horizon, calculating, searching. The Sultan's escape was not unexpected. Nor was it allowed.
Strike teams, guided by intelligence and magic, hunted the royal family through the jungle. They moved like shadows, silent and precise. Days passed, then weeks, but there was no refuge from the empire.
And when the Sultan was found, crouched in the depths of the rainforest, surrounded by the remnants of his court, the battle ended with a single command.
He was captured. Brought before the empire.
---
The fall of Brunei was not marked by a single battle, but by inevitability. The empire moved like thunder, its shadow unstoppable, its will unbreakable.
And as the last echoes of resistance faded, Brunei was consumed.
Its oil fields, its cities, its sovereignty—annexed beneath the dark banners of the IFRP. The war machine was fed. The conquest was complete.
And Southeast Asia trembled beneath the shadow of the empire.
Smoke still curled over Bandar Seri Begawan, the scent of gunfire and defeat lingering in the air as the IFRP tightened its grip. Brunei's capital lay silent beneath imperial boots, its streets patrolled by soldiers, its skies watched by drones. The Sultan's capture was not just a victory—it was the end of Brunei's sovereignty, the final breath of a nation that had resisted and fallen.
But for the empire, the conquest was far from over.
The true prize lay beyond the palace walls—in the black depths beneath Brunei's soil, in the offshore platforms that rose like steel titans from the ocean. The oil fields. The lifeblood of the empire's ambition.
---
Within hours of securing the capital, IFRP engineers and military strategists swept into the oil zones, moving with the precision of a well-oiled machine. Offshore platforms were stormed, their workers rounded up beneath the barrels of imperial rifles. Pipelines and refineries were seized, guarded by soldiers who watched every shadow for signs of resistance.
The orders were clear—consolidate, secure, integrate.
Brunei's energy infrastructure, once sovereign and independent, was torn apart and rewired. Imperial machinery replaced local systems. Control rooms, once manned by Bruneian engineers, were overtaken by IFRP specialists. Data was stripped, reprogrammed to feed the empire's endless hunger. Tankers were repurposed, redirected to serve the empire's war machine. What had once fueled a nation's economy now fueled a global conquest.
But occupation bred defiance.
Whispers of sabotage stirred beneath the surface. Oil workers loyal to Brunei's fallen government moved in the shadows, plotting to destroy what they could before surrendering their homeland's resources. Military officers, stripped of command but not of courage, organized secret cells, planning strikes, destruction, resistance.
The empire's answer was swift.
Martial law descended like a blade, swift and merciless. Streets that once echoed with the rhythm of daily life fell silent beneath the weight of curfews. Families were torn apart, neighbors turned strangers, and communities shattered beneath the shadow of oppression. The empire's soldiers marched through empty avenues, their boots striking the pavement like war drums, a constant reminder that freedom had been buried beneath imperial law.
Those who dared whisper of rebellion were silenced. Dragged from their homes in the dead of night, their cries swallowed by the darkness, they vanished into the empire's cold, unforgiving machine. Their fates were sealed in silent, faceless trials—names erased, destinies crushed.
Sabotage was answered with brutal finality. Oil workers who dared defy the empire, who struck at the heart of its machinery, were executed at dawn. There was no ceremony, no mercy. They were lined up beneath the rising sun, the sky painted in gold while the earth was stained red. Their bodies lay as grim monuments, silent warnings to any who dared dream of defiance.
Military officers who resisted were hunted down, cut down in alleyways, dragged from hiding places, shot where they stood. Their bodies were left where they fell, a message written in blood: loyalty was survival, rebellion was death.
But fear alone was not enough to break a nation.
Brunei's people watched from behind shuttered windows, their eyes shadowed by fear, their grief hidden behind stone faces. The air was thick with silence, the kind that pressed heavy on the soul, suffocating even the quietest of hopes. They stood as silent witnesses to the end of their sovereignty, their gazes hollow as they watched the flag of their conqueror unfurl over oil platforms that had once been the lifeblood of their nation. Platforms that had fueled dreams of progress now stood beneath the shadow of imperial banners, their wealth no longer their own.
In the streets, foreign soldiers marched with cold precision, their boots striking against the pavement in rhythm with the empire's dominance. Patrols cut through the heart of Brunei's cities, their weapons ready, their presence a constant reminder of who now held power. Landmarks that once stood as symbols of pride and history were overshadowed by banners of conquest, their colors stark against the subdued hues of a subdued nation.
They witnessed the cold efficiency of conquest.
Brunei was no longer a nation.
The streets of Bandar Seri Begawan, once alive with the quiet hum of prosperity, now stood under the unyielding shadow of the Imperial Federal Republic of the Philippines. IFRP banners hung from government buildings, their dark sigils casting long, unbroken dominance over the city. Patrols marched with cold precision, their presence an unspoken warning to all who remained.
Resistance had been crushed. The oil fields were secure. The empire's machine had swallowed yet another land.
Inside the grand chamber of what had once been the Sultan's palace, the final act of submission was written in ink and silence.
Sultan Hassanal Bolkiah sat at the long mahogany table, his regal robes now a hollow echo of the authority he no longer possessed. The paper before him bore the imperial seal—the Declaration of Surrender, the official decree marking the end of Brunei's independence. His hand trembled slightly as he gripped the pen.
Cameras watched. IFRP officers stood impassively at his back. Gabriella Aurelia Mendez observed from the head of the room, her expression unreadable, her gaze a silent demand.
There was no ceremony. No negotiation.
Just a single stroke of a pen.
And with that, the nation of Brunei ceased to exist.
The Brunei Oil Dominion was born. A province of the empire, its wealth no longer its own. Its borders erased, its sovereignty dismantled, its resources claimed for the greater glory of the IFRP.
The Sultan set the pen down and leaned back in his chair, his eyes hollow, his title meaningless. The last ruler of Brunei was now nothing more than a figurehead—a relic of a nation that had once been free.
Beyond the palace walls, the empire wasted no time.
Oil refineries ran at full capacity, tankers streaming out of Brunei's harbors, their cargo fueling IFRP warships, aircraft, and armored divisions. The energy infrastructure, now fully integrated, fed the imperial war machine with limitless power. The economy of conquest surged forward, its lifeblood secured.
Oil refineries roared to life, their towers belching smoke as they ran at full capacity, day and night. The ground trembled beneath the hum of machinery, a relentless pulse driving the empire's ambition. Tankers lined Brunei's harbors like obedient beasts of burden, their massive holds filled with black gold. One by one, they slipped into the open sea, their cargo destined to fuel the empire's warships, aircraft, and armored divisions.
The refineries worked without pause, their workers laboring beneath the watchful eyes of imperial overseers. What had once been Brunei's wealth now flowed freely into the veins of conquest, feeding an insatiable hunger. Pipelines stretched like arteries beneath the earth, pumping oil toward waiting ships and storage depots. It was a machine of extraction and domination, efficient and cold.
The energy infrastructure, once a symbol of sovereignty, now served the empire's will. It had been seized, reprogrammed, and integrated into the imperial engine of war. Every drop of oil, every flicker of energy, was redirected to power the relentless march of conquest. The skies roared with the engines of imperial bombers, the seas churned beneath the weight of warships, and the ground shook beneath the advance of armored columns—all fueled by Brunei's stolen lifeblood.
The economy of conquest surged forward, unstoppable and absolute. The empire's reach expanded, its power consolidated, its war machine grinding on with renewed strength. Where once Brunei's oil fueled prosperity, now it fueled domination.
---
Location: Charleston, South Carolina, United States of North America
The sun dipped low over the Charleston harbor, casting golden light across the water. The air was warm and heavy with the scent of salt and magnolia blossoms. Angelina Kudou Shields sat at a small café along the waterfront, a half-empty cup of iced coffee sweating on the table beside her. She wore a simple white blouse and faded jeans, her blonde hair pulled back in a loose braid. Her eyes, sharp and watchful even in moments of peace, were fixed on the horizon, watching sailboats drift lazily beneath the fading sun.
For the first time in weeks, there was calm. No operations. No meetings. Just the soft hum of conversations around her and the gentle lapping of waves against the pier. She let herself breathe, savoring the moment of normalcy that felt more fragile with every passing day.
She reached for her book, fingers brushing over the worn cover, when her phone buzzed sharply against the wooden table. The sound, though small, shattered the serenity like a gunshot. Her body tensed instinctively, her senses sharpening. The caller ID was masked—standard protocol. Only one kind of call came through that way.
She picked it up, pressing the device to her ear.
"This is Shields," she said, voice low, controlled.
There was a brief pause on the other end, the kind that said everything without a word. And then the voice came, calm and cold.
"We have a situation."
Angelina's gaze flicked to the harbor, but her mind was already elsewhere—calculating, preparing. The moment of peace was gone, swept away like the tide. She closed the book, her fingers lingering for half a second before she stood.
"Malaysia, Singapore." The voice was steady but grim. "They fell. Fast. Too fast."
Angelina's brow furrowed, her free hand curling into a fist at her side. "How?"
"The same way they took Indochina. Swift, brutal, efficient. Vietnam crumbled first. Their coastal defenses were overwhelmed. Ho Chi Minh city became a fortress of fire, but it wasn't enough. The empire shattered them—street by street, block by block. No survivors. No resistance left."
The words struck like a blow, but the voice pressed on.
"Laos fought harder. Their defenses were stronger. But it didn't matter. Imperial airships reduced their strongholds to rubble. Drones hunted them in the skies. Tamaraw cavalry tore through the outskirts. And when the STARS operatives in Singapore tried to hold the line, they were hunted down, dismantled. One by one. The last of them were captured. Or worse."
A cold silence settled between them, heavy and suffocating. Angelina's mind raced, her thoughts flashing through the names of those who might have fallen. Friends. Allies. Ghosts now.
"And Brunei?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.
"Gone. They took the oil first, then the cities. Martial law swept through like a blade. Those who resisted were executed. No ceremony. No mercy."
Angelina's grip tightened on the phone. The empire wasn't just winning—they were erasing. Nation by nation. Identity by identity.
"And we know who it is now," the voice added, colder still. "The Imperial Federal Republic of the Philippines. IFRP."
She drew in a slow breath, her mind sharpening. The name carried weight now. Power. Fear.
"They're not just conquering," the voice continued. "They're consuming. Fast. Coordinated. Too coordinated. It's like they're always ten steps ahead."
Angelina's eyes narrowed. "How coordinated?"
There was a pause, as though the speaker hesitated to speak the full truth. Then, the words came, grim and cold.
"Their tactics are... flawless. We've never seen anything like it. Tamaraw-mounted artillery moves in coordinated volleys—lines of armored beasts thundering forward, their cannons firing in perfect rhythm. Entire defensive lines were shattered before they could even return fire. Cities that should've held for weeks fell in days. It wasn't war. It was slaughter."
Angelina felt her stomach twist, but her voice stayed calm. "And the magicians?"
"Worse. Tamaraw magicians are deployed like precision weapons. Their magic isn't chaotic—it's calculated. Barriers that should've held against any assault were torn apart in seconds. Mana-infused artillery strikes cut through steel and stone, wiping out entire regiments with a single command. It wasn't just destruction—it was annihilation. Coordinated strikes that dismantled resistance before it could even form. Whole battalions just... gone."
Angelina's breath caught in her throat. The reports had been grim, but hearing it like this, detailed and raw, painted a different picture—one soaked in blood and despair.
"And the anti-tank units?" she asked, though she feared the answer.
"They've deployed advanced ballista systems," the voice said, low and grim. "Mounted on the Tamaraws. Designed for anti-tank and anti-infantry strikes. Precision shots that pierce armor like it's paper. Their infantry barely needs to engage when these monsters are tearing through walls and steel. Our vehicles, our defenses—they're nothing but targets. It was a massacre. Malaysia, Singapore, Brunei... they didn't stand a chance."
Angelina's brow furrowed, the name gnawing at her thoughts. She paced slowly across her apartment, the floor creaking beneath her steps.
"Tamaraws?" she asked, her voice sharp, cutting through the heavy silence. "What the hell are they?"
There was a pause on the other end, a hesitation that told her the answer wasn't simple.
"They're… beasts," the voice said, low and grim. "Massive, armored creatures. Think war elephants, but bred for one purpose—destruction. The IFRP has domesticated them, armored them, weaponized them. They're not just mounts. They're moving fortresses. Heavy plates, reinforced limbs, thick enough to shrug off small-arms fire. And they're fast. Faster than they should be for their size."
Angelina's heart pounded in her chest. "And they're mounting artillery on them?"
"Not just artillery." The voice was tight, grim. "They've got mounted ballista systems for anti-tank and anti-infantry strikes. Precision-guided. These things punch through armor like it's cardboard. We've seen whole convoys wiped out in minutes. No warning. Just a rain of steel that tears through hulls and bodies alike."
Angelina's mind raced, piecing together the reports, the losses, the brutality of the empire's advance. "And magicians?"
"Each Tamaraw unit is paired with one. Heavy shield-casters. Barrier wards. They protect the beasts, the artillery, and themselves. And when they attack…" A pause, as though the speaker struggled to find words. "It's pure annihilation. Mana lances that burn through concrete. Barriers that deflect bullets like rain. We lost entire squads in seconds, Shields. Seconds."
Angelina stopped pacing, her pulse heavy in her ears. "How did they get this organized? How did no one know?"
"Because they've been preparing for years," the voice said, hollow. "While the world looked the other way, while we watched other threats, they were building this. Training. Arming. Perfecting their war machine. And now it's rolling over everything in its path."
Angelina's jaw clenched. Her mind raced, calculating, analyzing. She wanted to believe there was still time to stop them. But if Malaysia, Singapore, and Brunei fell that fast, how long did the USNA have? How long before these armored beasts crossed another ocean, another border?
The silence stretched for a moment, heavy and suffocating, before the voice on the other end broke it.
"And it's not just the Tamaraws, Shields." The words were low, grim. "It's the imperial dreadnoughts and airships. They're the hammer that shatters defenses before the cavalry even arrives."
Angelina's stomach twisted. "Dreadnoughts?"
"Monsters," the voice said. "Steel leviathans. Massive, heavily armored, bristling with artillery batteries and missile systems. They're designed for coastal assaults, and they tore through Malaysia's shores like they were paper. Fortified bunkers, coastal guns, entire fleets—gone in hours. Their cannons reduce fortifications to dust. Missile barrages flatten cities before the first soldier sets foot on land."
Angelina pressed her hand to her forehead, forcing herself to focus, to imagine the scale of destruction. "And the airships?"
The pause that followed was worse than words.
"Behemoths," came the answer. "They blacken the skies. Massive, armored hulls. Anti-air batteries can't touch them—they fly too high, shielded with advanced magical wards. They rain hell from above, Shields. Precision strikes that reduce entire city blocks to rubble. They've got bomb bays the size of warehouses and onboard batteries that light up the sky like a second sun."
The voice was tight, strained. "Singapore's defenses didn't stand a chance. Coastal guns were picked off in seconds. Anti-air positions wiped out before they could lock on. They used drones to map the battlefield, directing fire with surgical precision. And when the bombing started… it wasn't a battle. It was extermination."
Angelina's throat was dry. She tried to picture a defense—any defense—that could withstand that level of destruction. The image crumbled as quickly as the cities the empire had reduced to ash.
"And when the ground forces moved in," the voice continued, "the dreadnoughts provided artillery support. Missiles arcing over the horizon, shells pounding what was left. By the time the Tamaraws and infantry arrived, all that remained were craters and smoke. We're not talking about military precision, Shields. We're talking about complete, brutal efficiency. Like they've calculated every outcome, every contingency, and crushed it before it could form."
Angelina clenched her jaw, her pulse hammering in her ears. "And the airships? How do we stop them?"
The voice was cold. "We haven't figured that out yet."
The words settled like lead in her chest.
"They're not just advancing," the voice said. "They're rewriting warfare. The combination of dreadnoughts, airships, Tamaraw cavalry, and magicians—it's a perfect storm. Every angle covered. Every weakness exploited."
The silence that followed was almost suffocating, thick with the weight of grim revelations. But before the voice could say more, Angelina's breath hitched, her mind snapping to a cold, sharp realization. A name surfaced from the depths of classified reports and fragmented whispers—one that had haunted the shadows of intelligence for months.
"And worst of all," she said slowly, her voice a low, dangerous whisper, "it's the Sword of the Empire."
There was a pause, then a sharp intake of breath from the other end. "You know?"
"I know," Lina said, her jaw tightening. "Gabriella Aurelia Mendez."
The name lingered in the air like smoke, heavy and suffocating. The voice on the other end dropped lower, as if afraid to speak the truth aloud.
"She's the one leading the flanking strikes. The one opening the Imperial Gate behind enemy lines. Every strategic collapse, every supply chain sabotaged—she's been there. No warning. No escape. They lose positions before they even know they've been compromised."
Lina's heart pounded, but her face remained impassive. "Because she's not just a commander. She's a Strategic-Class magician."
"Exactly," the voice replied grimly. "Her magic is… something else. Imperial Gate. Mass teleportation. She can deploy entire legions behind our strongest defenses. No one knows where she'll strike until it's already too late. That's how Malaysia fell so fast. How Singapore crumbled. Why Brunei couldn't hold."
Lina turned to the window, her eyes dark, reflecting the fading light of the day. "And now we know why the STARS operatives were hunted down so easily. Why our supply lines collapsed overnight. It wasn't just tactics. It was her."
"She dismantled our networks. Sabotaged every fallback plan we had. She's not just their weapon—she's their executioner."
A heavy silence hung in the air, but Angelina's mind was already racing, her thoughts sharpening with every second. The mention of Gabriella's name, the title of Strategic-Class Magician, struck a chord deep within her—a shadow from old reports, old comparisons. A memory she wished she didn't have to recall.
She drew in a slow breath, her voice low but edged with steel. "She's like Tatsuya."
There was a sharp pause on the other end. A name that didn't need explanation. A name that lingered like a ghost in every high-level briefing, a warning of what a true Strategic-Class magician could do.
"You think so?" The voice was hesitant, wary.
Angelina nodded, though no one could see her. "Same profile. Same method. Surgical strikes. Calculated annihilation. Cold logic. No wasted effort. No second chances. And when she moves, it's already too late."
"Except this time," the voice said grimly, "she's not neutral. She's not restrained. She's fighting for the empire, and she's striking with everything."
Angelina's jaw tightened. She remembered the old reports, the whispered comparisons, the analysis of what a magician of that caliber could accomplish. Cities leveled in a single strike. Nations silenced in a day. Magic that didn't just destroy—it erased.
"Gabriella doesn't just lead battles," Angelina said quietly. "She ends them. She's faster than our intelligence, sharper than our tactics. If she's behind the Imperial Gate strikes, if she's directing those Tamaraw cavalry and coordinating the artillery from the dreadnoughts, we don't have a front line. We just have a waiting grave."
The voice on the line was low, heavy. "And she's not done yet."
"No," Angelina agreed. "She's just getting started."
She turned from the window, her reflection pale in the fading light. The comparison to Tatsuya was a nightmare in itself—but Gabriella wasn't a shadow. She was flesh, blood, and steel. And worse—she was loyal. Loyal to an empire that wanted nothing less than complete domination.
The silence lingered after the call ended, but the weight of those final words hung heavier. Angelina stared at the darkened phone in her hand, her mind turning over every possibility, every consequence. Gabriella Aurelia Mendez—the Sword of the Empire. A Strategic-Class Magician who wielded her power with cold, devastating precision. A threat unlike any they had faced.
And yet... she was still just a student.
The thought struck her like a blow. Young. Brilliant. Deadly. A student whose hands now wielded the power to burn nations. A girl who, under different circumstances, might have been walking through school corridors, laughing with friends, debating spells and magic theory. Instead, she was opening the Imperial Gate, orchestrating annihilation, and erasing entire cities from existence.
Angelina closed her eyes, her jaw tightening.
"She's still a student," she muttered, the words feeling bitter on her tongue. "A student… who just ended 'Seven' nations."