3: Watching, Watching.

The soldier nodded, "Indeed, My Lord. The Black Shackles are always at your command, following it word by word, syllable by syllable." His voice held a reverent timbre, as if each word was a bow from the waist.

"Good job," Alistair's words were a soft symphony of satisfaction, each syllable a note of approval, and the smile that unfurled on his lips was the final flourish of a maestro. "I'll meet them after I'm done with the footage, perhaps ten minutes later." His face settled into calmness, his gaze thoughtful.

The screen powered up, displaying the text: "Ace Armories." In the center, with smaller text underneath, "For the soldier, From the soldier."

___________________________

Ace Armories is one of the many cogs in the relentless machine of the Wythrian Military, each gear and bolt pushing it forward with unstoppable momentum. It outfits the individual soldier with body armor, weapons, ammunition, and consoles—every piece a promise of invincibility.

___________________________

A golden light bathed the screen, revealing an array of options, each a pathway to the lifeblood of military logistics:

- Media: VID, AUD, TXT

- Maps

- Supply Orders

- Personnel Reports

Alistair's fingers moved the joystick and pressed down on a small button on the top of the device, selecting the Media option, then VID. Two choices emerged:

- Training

- External: Surveillance Footage

He chose the latter, revealing four videos extracted from the Winstet Security Department, each with a timestamp from the day before—a silent testament to the department's defection or downfall to rebel hands. Though the rebels had fled before Alistair's arrival, he knew a counterattack loomed like a storm on the horizon.

He must make do with what he has:

- Winstet: Town Hall - 10:17 AM

- Winstet: Central - 10:10 AM

- Winstet: Gates - 10:12 AM

- Winstet: Developing Sector - 10:32 AM

"Funny," he murmured to himself, an eyebrow arching in intrigue and amusement as he noticed the dates, three days before the enforcement attacked which had only began at around 11:50 AM. He chuckled, "The entire town had defected." His smile was a harbinger of satisfaction, already sensing the victory that would follow.

Alistair opened the first video, Winstet: Town Hall - 10:17 AM. The footage revealed the town's vassal with a few of his ministers in the town hall garden. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, yet Alistair's keen eyes caught sight of two figures. They stood confidently, arms crossed, the tails of their coats draped oddly as if concealing something around their waists.

"Hm, almost perfectly concealed firearms," Alistair murmured, his fingers idly caressing Mist. "Impressive," he added, a smirk playing on his lips, mingling amusement with contempt. His eyebrow arched as the two figures approached the vassal and his advisors. Their attire—black coats and suits—might have fooled an unsuspecting observer into thinking they were bodyguards. But Alistair was no unsuspecting observer.

The group walked out of frame, leaving Alistair with a cold chuckle. "The vassal," he mused, his voice taking on a frigid edge.

He selected the next footage, Winstet: Central - 10:10 AM. The video was grainy, sections blurred or colorless. "Ah, they began tampering with the cameras," Alistair grinned, a predator savoring his prey's futile resistance. The footage showed townsfolk obliviously going about their day, a facade of normalcy masking the brewing storm. The center, less crowded than one might think, was lined with shops and restaurants.

Yet, Alistair's eyes caught groups of people with hands in the pockets of unnaturally thick coats. They converged at an alleyway entrance, whispering in hushed tones before dispersing, blending back into the crowd like undetected tumors.

The next footage, Gates - 10:12 AM, showed four guards at attention, their weapons ready. "Hm, still following standard training procedures," Alistair chuckled, the reason for their vigilance clear. A large truck entered the gates, flanked by two bikers in blue coats, faces obscured by civilian helmets. They nodded at the guards, who returned the gesture. "Something, something appropriate to be in a truck," Alistair mumbled, his mind piecing together the puzzle.

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the collective footsteps of soldiers, followed by a crowd of survivors bearing various degrees of injuries—a tapestry of ages, marred by the unforgiving hammer of enforcement.

A soldier stepped forward, saluting Alistair. "We've brought them here as you ordered, Lord Alistair." The soldier's voice held a note of pride, "Ten minutes after your order, as you specified." His voice faltered slightly as he saw the console in Alistair's hand, "Though, it seems as if you're quite busy."

Alistair's gaze shifted, cold and calculating. "Indeed," he said, his words a soft affirmation of satisfaction. "Ensure they are secured and kept under watch. I'll join you shortly."

The soldier nodded and stepped back, organizing the survivors into a line. Alistair returned his attention to the console, ready to delve deeper into the mystery unfolding before him.