THE PRICE OF VICTORY

Around him sat six officers. The most loyal, the most ruthless, those who didn't fear blood if it led to order. Those who saw their soldiers dying, their families perishing, "Eden" devouring their lands, and could wait no longer. They sat in a semicircle, their faces harsh as granite, eyes burning with a fire that could incinerate anything in their path. The room was a basement of an old warehouse on the city's edge-damp, dark, smelling of mold and dust. No street noise reached here; no one could hear them. The only light came from a kerosene lamp in the center of the table, casting long shadows on the walls. Shadows that seemed to the General like symbols of what they were about to do-dark, bloody, but necessary.

The General raised his eyes and looked around at the assembled men. He saw on their faces the same thing he felt himself-resolve bordering on fury, and exhaustion bordering on despair. They were tired of Elias's softness, his endless negotiations, his belief that peace could be built on trust. They saw the city falling apart, people dying of hunger, 'Eden' gaining strength while the Council debated. They knew peace was built on blood. And they were ready to spill it to protect what remained.

"You know why I've gathered you," the General began, his voice sounding like a whip crack in the silence. He spoke softly, but every word echoed off the basement walls, like a cry in an empty hall. "The city is dying. Hunger, water shortages, 'Eden's' attacks-it's all tearing us apart from within. And our leader, our great Elias, sits on his hands waiting for the problem to solve itself. He believes in negotiations. He believes the enemy can be persuaded with words. But you saw what happened to Rassvet."

The General paused, letting the words sink in. He saw the officers exchange glances, their faces growing more tense. He knew they remembered. Everyone remembered.

"Four thousand people," he continued, his voice rising, hardening. "Four thousand people died in one night! Women, children, the elderly-they were simply burned like trash! And what did the Council do? What did Elias do? He ordered the fragments preserved for analysis! Analysis! While he was analyzing, 'Eden' was destroying our villages. While he waited for results, our people were dying."

He slammed his fist on the table, and the map jumped, the lamp swaying, casting dancing shadows on the officers' faces. Shadows that now seemed to them like outlines of enemies.

"'Eden' doesn't listen to words!" the General shouted, rising from the table and beginning to pace the room. "'Eden' only listens to force! And if we don't take power into our own hands, if we don't stop waiting, we'll all be destroyed! Elias is too soft! He's weak! And the weak don't survive in this world!"

He stopped behind the gray-templed colonel, an old war dog who had lost an eye storming the Agri-Continent and now sat, fists clenched, ready for action.

"I know we're all tired," the General said, his voice softening, almost confidential. "I know we've all lost someone. I lost my wife and daughter in the war. We've all lost. But we can't afford to give up. We can't afford to be weak. We must act."

The colonel stood up, his voice as hard as steel.

"General, I'm with you," he said. "We must act now. Every day of delay is more deaths. But how do we do it? Elias has his supporters. Many believe in him. Believe he's leading us to the light."

The General smirked and approached the colonel. He placed a hand on the old warrior's shoulder and looked him straight in the eye.

"His followers don't know the truth," the General said, lowering his voice to a whisper meant only for the colonel. "They don't know he's a clone. Yes, I know it. I found his files in the Genesis archives when we captured the base. Elias was created by Marcus Vos. He's hiding it from everyone. He's the same as those who destroyed us. The same as those who created 'Eden.'"

Silence fell in the basement. The officers exchanged glances, and the General saw the information sinking in, changing their perception. Elias-a clone. It changed everything. They weren't just overthrowing a weak leader-they were overthrowing an enemy pretending to be a friend. Who had wormed his way into their trust to destroy them from within.

"If he's a clone," the colonel said slowly, a fury entering his voice, "then he's a traitor by nature. We can't trust him. We can't let him lead us. He lies to us every day."

"Exactly," the General said. "We must overthrow him. We must take power to save the city. I don't want this-I respected him as a soldier. He was brave, he fought for us. But if it's the only way to survive, I'm ready for anything."

He scanned the assembled faces. They looked at him with faith, with readiness to follow him through fire and water. He knew they would follow him. They were his weapon, his army, his last hope.

"We begin tomorrow at dawn," he said, his voice turning sharp, commanding. "We arrest everyone connected to Elias-his officers, his advisors, his supporters. Then we seize headquarters. We'll take Elias alive-I want him to see his world crumble. I want him to understand his illusions are shattered."

He walked to the table and leaned over the map.

"Here's the plan," he said, tracing streets with his finger. "First squad takes headquarters. Second-the barracks. Third-blockades the city exits. Fourth-arrests anyone who might resist. We must act fast and without mercy. No hesitation. No pity."

The officers nodded, memorizing every word.

"Who's with me?" the General asked, straightening up.

"We are with you!" the officers answered in unison, their voices merging into one powerful shout that seemed to shake the basement walls.

The General nodded. He knew the coup was inevitable. He knew it would be bloody. He knew many would die, many would suffer. But he also knew it was the only way to save the city. And he was ready to pay any price.

When the officers left, he remained alone in the basement. The lamp was dying, casting its last flickers on his face. He looked at the map, at the red points, and thought about what came next. He didn't want to kill Elias-he respected him as a fighter. Respected his courage, his loyalty, his ability to lead. But if Elias stood in his way, if he tried to stop him, he would do it. Without hesitation. Without regret.

"Forgive me, Gora," he whispered, looking at the wall where a worn portrait of the fallen hero hung. "Forgive me, old friend. But I must do this. For the city. For the future. For all who died."

He walked to the table, extinguished the lamp, and the basement plunged into darkness. He went outside, where the night wind lashed his face, and looked at the stars. They shone coldly and indifferently, as if they didn't see what was happening below. He knew tomorrow would change everything.

He headed to his room to prepare for the next day's battle. But he also knew he wouldn't sleep. Thoughts churned-what if he was wrong? What if Elias had been right? What if diplomacy could have worked? What if he became the same kind of tyrant as Marcus?

He pushed the thoughts away. He had made his choice. And he would see it through. He wouldn't let doubt stop him. He would save this city. Even if it meant becoming a monster.

Major Torn woke to someone roughly grabbing his shoulder and yanking him up. He didn't have time to open his eyes before he was pulled from his bed, cold air hitting his bare skin. He heard shouting-first strangers, then his own as he tried to break free and realized his hands were already cuffed. The light of a kerosene lamp, held by one of the soldiers, hit his eyes, blinding him for a moment. Torn squinted, and when he opened his eyes, he saw three stone faces-soldiers of the General, the same ones who always shadowed him. They weren't smiling, weren't gloating, just following orders like machines.

"What are you doing?" the major shouted, struggling in their grip. "You have no right! I'm a Council officer! I'm Major Torn! You'll answer for this!"

"We have orders from the General," said one of the soldiers, a senior man with a rough face and a scar on his cheek. "You're under arrest for treason. For conspiring with 'Eden.' For leaking information that led to the destruction of Rassvet."

"That's a lie!" Torn screamed, his voice filled with such fury that the soldier flinched back for a moment. "I was never an agent of 'Eden'! I fought for this city! I lost friends here, I risked my life, I gave orders that saved lives! How dare you?"

The soldier didn't answer. He just waved his hand, and the other two grabbed the major under his arms and dragged him towards the exit. He tried to resist, but his bare feet slipped on the cold stone floor, and he knew it was useless. There were three of them, they were armed, and they were stronger.

They dragged him into the street, and the morning cold hit his face. The sky was gray, as always, and smoke rose over the city. Several houses on the outskirts were burning-where the General's soldiers had begun their purge. Shouts, crying, gunfire-everything mixed into one hellish noise.

People came out of their houses, watching him with horror and curiosity, and no one tried to help. They stood silent, holding their breath, afraid to move, afraid they'd be accused too. Some turned away, unable to watch. Some shouted: "Traitor! Murderer!"-their voices full of hatred feeding on fear.

The major walked with his head high, trying to maintain his dignity. He passed familiar faces-people he'd drunk coffee with, discussed defense plans with, dreamed of the future with. No one met his eyes. No one said a word in his defense. He was alone. Betrayed, forgotten, accused of what he hadn't done.

The square was already filled with a crowd. Hundreds of people came to watch the execution. They stood shoulder to shoulder, fear and curiosity in their eyes. The General was in full dress uniform, medals on his chest, looking triumphant, like a hero who would save them from their enemies. His officers stood beside him, ready to obey any command, their faces cold and merciless.

"Major Torn," the General said, raising his voice so all could hear. "You are charged with treason. Conspiring with 'Eden.' Leaking information that led to the destruction of Rassvet. Do you confess?"

"Lies!" Torn shouted, trying to break through to the General, but the soldiers held him back, gripping his shoulders. "You know it's a lie! I never betrayed the Council! You're the traitor! You want to seize power! You're destroying our city!"

The General calmly walked over to the major and looked him straight in the eye. There was not a shred of doubt in his gaze-only cold, steely resolve. He stood so close that the major could see every wrinkle on his face, every gray hair, every bead of sweat on his forehead.

"I only know that you refused to support the legitimate government," the General said, his voice quiet but ominous, like a whisper of death. "You refused to honor your oath. You rebelled against authority. And you must answer for it."

The major spat in the General's face. His saliva landed on the dress uniform, and the crowd gasped, as if someone had struck a taut string. The General wiped his face and stepped back. His eyes darkened, and fury, barely contained, flashed in them.

"You've left me no choice," he said, turning to the soldiers. "Shoot him for treason. Now."

The soldiers grabbed the major and dragged him to the wall. He tried to resist, but there were too many. He shouted he was innocent, that the General was a usurper, that the city would perish because of his actions, that his death would be only the beginning. But no one listened. The soldiers stood him against the wall, and a volley rang out.

The major fell, his body left lying on the square for all to see. Blood spread over the stones, and the crowd fell silent. The General turned to them and raised his hands.

"This is what happens to those who betray us!" he shouted, his voice carrying over the square. "But this is only the beginning! We will cleanse the city of everyone connected to 'Eden'! We will defend our freedom! We will not allow traitors to destroy what we've built!"

The crowd applauded. They didn't know the truth. They believed they were being saved. They believed the General was their hero. But in the eyes of some, the most perceptive, a flicker of fear appeared-fear for themselves, for their loved ones, for the future.

At that moment, a purge began in the city. The General's soldiers went from house to house, dragging people out, arresting everyone connected to Elias. Shouts, crying, gunfire-everything mixed in one hellish noise. Major Torn was the first. But he was not the last.

The General stood on the square, watching the crowd. He saw their fear, their hope, their faith. He knew they would follow him. He would give them order, security, everything Elias had promised but failed to deliver. And he would stop at nothing to achieve it.

Elias stood at the headquarters window, watching the smoke rise over the city. Black clouds rose into the gray sky, mixing with the clouds, and the smell of burning penetrated even the closed room. He heard shouts-first distant, then closer. He heard gunfire. He knew what was happening. And he knew who was behind it. His heart pounded in his chest like a bird in a cage, and he felt anger boiling inside him, barely contained. He gripped the windowsill so hard his knuckles went white, and the wood began to crack under his hands.

He watched the city they had built over seven months, raised from the ashes after the fall of the Agri-Continent, fall apart in a single night. He saw the General's soldiers dragging people from their homes, heard them screaming, dying. He knew many of those people were innocent. They had just been close to him, had just believed in him, had just hoped for better. And now they were paying with their lives.

The General entered without knocking, without asking permission-just walked in like an owner, like a man already feeling like a winner. He was calm, as if nothing had happened-as if he hadn't just ordered the execution of Major Torn, as if the purge hadn't begun, as if the city wasn't dying before their eyes. He wore the same dress uniform he'd worn on the square, and a faint smile played on his lips-the smile of a man who knows he's won. The smile of a predator who has finally reached his prey and is savoring the moment.

"What have you done?" Elias asked, trying to control his anger, but his voice trembled with fury. "You started a purge. You killed Major Torn. You arrested dozens of innocent people. You've turned our city into hell! What have you done to my people?"

"I'm doing this for security," the General replied, crossing his arms. He spoke calmly, as if explaining to a child why they shouldn't touch fire. "They were agents of 'Eden.' They deserved death. Do you think I want this? I don't, but I have no choice. Either their death, or the death of us all. You must understand this, Elias. You must see reality."

"You know that's a lie!" Elias shouted, stepping towards him. "You're killing people who just disagree with you! You're killing those who remained loyal to me! You're destroying everything we built! We were supposed to build a world, and you're turning it into a graveyard! You're worse than Marcus Vos, because you do it with a smile!"

The General smirked, something cold and almost contemptuous in it. He stepped closer, and now they stood face to face, only a few steps apart. The General was taller, older, and in his eyes was that steely confidence that appears in people when they believe in their own righteousness.

"We were building? We?" he repeated, his voice hardening like steel. "You think you're one of us? You're a clone. You were created by Marcus Vos. You were never one of us. You pretended, you hid, you lied to us. Every day, every minute, every time you looked us in the eye, you lied. You're just like them. You're the enemy."

Elias froze. He knew the General knew the truth. He knew this day would come. But he hadn't expected the General to use it now, in this moment, as a weapon. The General's words stabbed into him like knives, and he felt something inside him breaking.

"You don't understand," Elias said, his voice quieter, but filled with pain. "I'm not like the others. I fought for this city. I fought for freedom. I fought for you, when you were wounded in battle. I saved you. Remember? You lay in the mud, bleeding out, and I pulled you out. I carried you on my shoulders for five kilometers until I found a doctor. You were delirious, but you held my hand and said: 'Thank you, brother.' You remember that? Remember what I did for you?"

The General looked at him, and for a moment, a shadow of doubt flickered in his eyes. Something wavered in his face, and Elias saw, for an instant, the man with whom he'd fought side by side, who had believed in him, who had called him brother. But the shadow vanished as quickly as it came, like a cloud shadow on a windy day.

"You're a traitor by nature," the General said, his voice hardening. "Clones can't be free. They're created for submission. And you're proof of that. You wear the mask of a human, but inside you're a machine built for destruction. You think you can be one of us? You never were, and you never will be. You're just a puppet Marcus Vos created."

Elias looked at the General, fury and despair warring inside him. He knew the General had crossed a line. He knew a battle was about to begin, one with no winners. But he also knew he couldn't back down. He couldn't surrender. He had to defend those who believed in him.

"You're becoming a threat yourself," he said, his voice firm. "You're destroying our city. You're turning it into a prison where people are afraid to breathe. You're a tyrant, and you're worse than 'Eden,' because you were among us. You knew us, you were with us, you ate with us at the same table, and now you kill us without regret."

The General smirked but said nothing. He just turned and walked out, leaving Elias alone in the room. The door closed with a dull thud, and Elias was left with the silence and the smoke outside the window.

He walked to the table and picked up an old photograph-Gora, Cain, Charlie, himself, and Iris. They stood at the memorial, in the first month after the victory, smiling, believing everything would be fine. Now none of them were there-Gora dead, Cain dead, Charlie dead, Iris gone east, and he was alone in this city that would soon become his grave. He ran his finger over their faces and felt tears welling up.

"I won't give up," he whispered. "I won't let him destroy everything. For you. For all who died. For Iris."

He put the photograph in his pocket and began gathering his things. He knew the worst was about to begin. He heard footsteps outside the door, the shouts of his people trying to defend headquarters. He knew the General wouldn't stop until he'd taken everything. And he knew he had to run.

Elias walked down the corridor, each step echoing in his ears, mixing with distant shouts and gunfire. He was almost running, pressing against the walls, trying to avoid the General's patrols. In his hand, he gripped the old pistol-the same one he'd carried since storming the Agri-Continent. The magazine held only three rounds. He knew it was too little to fight through the soldiers, but enough to not surrender alive. His fingers trembled, not from fear, but from rage boiling in his chest, mixing with icy despair. He felt adrenaline flooding his blood, sharpening his senses, turning every shadow into a potential threat.

The headquarters corridors, just hours ago filled with bustling noise, officers' voices, and typing, had become a labyrinth of death. Walls were riddled with bullet holes-deep, dark craters oozing limestone dust. On the floor, mixed with debris and shattered glass, lay torn documents-defense plans, supply lists, personal letters now soaking in blood and trampled by soldier boots. Somewhere deep in the building, a fire burned-Elias could smell the acrid smoke, mixed with the smell of blood and ozone. It was a smell he knew to his bones. It had haunted him since the beginning of the war, and now it seemed to be permanently embedded in his clothes, his skin, his lungs.

He turned a corner and froze. Right in front of him, three of the General's soldiers, in black body armor with crossed-sword patches, were dragging his adjutant down the corridor-the young lieutenant with the eyepatch on his left eye, the same one who had lost his eye storming Marcus's tower and had served him with fanatical loyalty ever since. The lieutenant looked terrible: his uniform torn, his face covered in blood-from a split brow, a busted lip, a deep wound on his cheek, oozing dark venous blood. One sleeve was almost torn to the shoulder, and his exposed arm was covered in bruises and burns. He could barely stand, but in his one remaining eye burned the fire of resistance-the very fire Elias valued so highly in his people.

"I'm not a traitor!" the adjutant shouted, struggling, jerking in the soldiers' grip like a hunted animal. "Do you hear me? I am loyal to the Council! I am loyal to Elias! I fought for this city when you were still sitting in your barracks, afraid to stick your nose out! You have no right!"

He named fallen comrades, listed battles he'd fought in, shouted about the oath he'd sworn, not to the General, but to the people. But the soldiers didn't listen. They dragged him like a sack of garbage, ignoring his shouts, ignoring his resistance. One of them, a broad-shouldered brute with a bull neck, lazily smirked and raised his fist to punch the lieutenant in the face, to shut him up.

"Release him!" Elias shouted, stepping out of the shadows.

His voice, hoarse and raw, but incredibly loud, echoed through the corridor, making the soldiers freeze. For a moment, a strange, ringing silence fell. Even the lieutenant stopped shouting, staring at his commander with both horror and hope. Elias saw the adjutant's eyes flicker a plea: "Run! Don't let them take you!" But it was too late.

Elias stepped forward, gun in hand, and at that moment heard heavy, confident footsteps behind him. Many footsteps. He turned-and saw the corridor behind him filling with soldiers. More than twenty. They moved in sync, like a single mechanism, closing in a tight circle, cutting off all escape routes. Their faces, lit by the dim emergency lights, were stone, merciless, expressionless. These weren't just soldiers-they were the General's elite, hardened by the bloodiest battles and knowing no mercy. They held weapons at the ready, barrels aimed at Elias's chest, and he could see some of their fingers already on triggers. One wrong move-and he'd be riddled with bullets.

"You're under arrest for treason," one of them said, stepping forward. It was a captain-tall, spare, with a rough, deeply lined face and cold, steely eyes. He spoke calmly, as if announcing the weather, and his voice held no doubt or sympathy. "Come with us. Without resistance."

Elias gripped the pistol so hard his knuckles went white. He looked at the captain, his impassive face, and felt a wave of rage, almost blinding, rising inside him. He wanted to scream that it was a lie, that he was the legitimate leader, that the General was a usurper, but the words stuck in his throat. He knew it was useless. These men didn't listen. They followed orders.

"I am the Council Leader!" he shouted, his voice wavering but not breaking. He tried to break through the ring, but the soldiers closed ranks, and he hit a wall of armored bodies. "I was elected by the people! I fought for this city before you were born! I gave it everything I had-every drop of blood, every hour of sleep, every hope! You have no right!"

"We have the General's orders," the captain said coldly, a flicker of annoyance in his voice. "Resistance is pointless. You're surrounded. We don't want to harm you, but if you resist, we will use force. Choose, Elias. Surrender voluntarily, or we'll do it by force."

Elias looked around. He saw, at the far end of the corridor, his people-the few still loyal to him-trying to fight their way to him. There were no more than ten. They fought desperately, with shouts and curses, but the General's soldiers were surrounding them from all sides, and they fell one by one under a hail of bullets. He saw the old colonel, his friend and comrade, collapse to his knees, clutching his chest, and not get up. He saw the young signals officer, a boy of nineteen, trying to crawl away, but a bullet caught him, and he froze in an unnatural pose, arms outstretched. He saw his adjutant, the one with the eyepatch, who moments ago was shouting his loyalty, being dragged away, across the floor, leaving a bloody trail. The adjutant no longer shouted-he just looked at Elias, and in his one eye was a plea, fear, and farewell. Elias knew he would never see him alive again.