War Stories

Extortion 17 wasn’t brought down by some grand conspiracy or hidden failure—it was a tragic, rare hit by enemy fighters who happened to be in the right place at the right time with a lucky shot.

We were fighting a war without a front line, where cruelty was as much a weapon as any rifle, and the enemy’s strength lay in finding the weakest point to strike.

I warned them it was only a matter of time before we were attacked—but nobody listened, and twenty-two people paid the price.

She wasn’t a symbol, or a narrative, or a talking point—she was a dying girl in the mud, and I watched her last pixilated breath.

You don’t have to wear a swastika to be dangerous—and you don’t have to quote Dugin to be part of a war built on empire.

Refreshed by a fleeting journey of the soul across time and space, I found strength in the shared silence between stars, and returned to the desert ready to march again.

It’s 1980. My UDT is tasked with a training op to assault a docked vessel from the open ocean. The trick? It’s guarded by Navy dolphins.

It’s a war being fought by men with creaking knees and fading eyesight—because the kids who should be fighting it are too valuable to kill.

The rifleman isn’t obsolete—but the idea he can fight modern wars without tech fluency sure is.

Delta’s devastating punch relies on the unsung heroes—our support brothers—whose relentless dedication and extraordinary flexibility make our foundation unbreakable.

They came with badges, not handcuffs—a reminder that in this new kind of war, the lines between warning, watching, and silencing have blurred beyond recognition.

They wouldn’t have traded places with anybody, for anything—and that tells you everything you need to know.