Lift a Finger

Screeching sirens echoed through the armed group's camp. It was a level-one alert, signaling that the entire base was now in combat mode, and all personnel were required to take their positions, ready to fire at any moment.

Everyone sprang into action. Soldiers rushed to their posts, armed themselves, and prepared their weapons. There was an atmosphere of mounting tension as they took their positions, their eyes scanning the sky, ready to unleash a barrage of firepower. But the enemy remained unseen, and that unknown enemy was more terrifying than anything they could imagine.

"Is the radar still not responding?" the commander barked, his voice taut with frustration.

"No response, sir," the tower operator replied, glancing nervously at his monitor. The radar screen displayed nothing but a dull, empty field—no blips, no signs of life.

"Alright, stay on guard." The commander's voice was steady, but the unease was palpable. He turned his head and glanced at Ross, the defector from Secret Service Nine and the founder and leader of their organization. Ross was standing off to the side, his expression unreadable as he observed the unfolding situation.

"There's still no response from the radar, sir," the tower operator added, his voice tinged with unease. "It's hard to explain, but I have a bad feeling, as if the enemy could appear at any moment... Could it be Secret Service Nine? Have they discovered this base?"

The commander looked to Ross for guidance. No one here knew the Ninth Special Service Division better than Ross. The commander wanted to know if it was possible for the Ninth Special Service Division to launch an attack without setting off any alarms or radars.

Ross shook his head, his voice calm as he spoke. "They don't have that kind of technology," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "The radar system at this base is the most advanced model available. No aircraft can avoid detection... at least, not anything from the Ninth."

The commander noted the qualifier in Ross's statement. "You mean..."

"Exactly," Ross replied, his face betraying no emotion. "I'm afraid we're dealing with something far worse than Secret Service Nine."

...

Everyone was at their posts. Guns were set up on high platforms, and all the anti-aircraft turrets were activated, ready to respond automatically. The soldiers held their breath, the entire camp silent as they awaited the enemy's approach. The tension was almost suffocating, as if the air itself had thickened.

These were no ordinary soldiers. Each had undergone strict training, forged through grueling exercises and trials. They were the elite—soldiers selected not only for their physical prowess but also for their mental resilience. Some fought because they had no other choice, while others held firm convictions that drove them to risk their lives. But regardless of their reasons, every one of them had an unshakable resolve to stand and fight.

They were prepared for anything. They imagined the worst—a brutal battle, an overwhelming onslaught of soldiers, fighter jets in formation, aircraft carriers blotting out the sky, and well-equipped troops attacking from all sides. They would fight without fear, spending every last bullet, fighting to the last man.

But the expected battle never came.

There were no planes, no battleships, and no signs of an enemy force. Then, suddenly, a deafening roar shattered the silence, exploding in everyone's ears. The tower at the center of the camp erupted in flames, burning debris crashing to the ground like the fall of a giant, sending up plumes of thick black smoke.

The once-silent camp descended into chaos.

"Enemy attack! Enemy attack!" someone shouted, their voice cracking with panic. Soldiers scrambled, trying to avoid the collapsing tower and the deadly rain of flaming debris. The chaos spread like wildfire as people ran, shouting orders, ducking for cover, and trying to make sense of the sudden destruction. Red-hot wreckage spun through the air, and many soldiers were injured by the flying shards.

Despite the pandemonium, no one could see where the attack was coming from. The entire base was effectively blind, feeling like a target for an invisible assailant, a ghostly force raining devastation upon them.

Next, an anti-aircraft gun exploded. Metal fragments scattered like shrapnel, and flames gushed forth, lifting half of the turret into the sky. The sight was both mesmerizing and horrifying—a symbol of their helplessness.

The explosions continued, one after another, as turret after turret was destroyed, leaving behind a sea of flames and twisted metal.

The once fearless soldiers began to feel terror creep into their hearts.

They were not afraid of death or of facing a powerful enemy. They had prepared themselves for that. But this was something entirely different—something beyond their understanding.

They were armed with state-of-the-art weapons, trained to face overwhelming odds, but they couldn't even see their target. The entire camp was burning, and they were powerless. They hadn't even caught a glimpse of the person or thing wielding the weapon of destruction.

All the anti-aircraft guns were destroyed, and the chaos only escalated when a tank was struck next.

At that moment, those standing nearby saw a golden beam of light flash, splitting the camp in two. The thick armor of the tank melted away, and the crew inside didn't even have time to react before the entire tank exploded in a violent burst, scattering fragments high into the sky.

Next, an armored combat vehicle full of soldiers tried to flee the barracks. It too was struck—something hit it with such tremendous force that the vehicle flipped over and crashed, completely deformed, onto the ground.

Finally, someone managed to catch a glimpse of the enemy.

It seemed that the enemy had slowed down enough for them to barely see a blurry afterimage. A red and gold figure broke through the wall of flames, flying at low altitude—so low it almost touched the ground, trailing a dazzling flame.

Everyone who saw the shadow was petrified, fear gripping them like a vice, cold and unforgiving.

Those with professional training knew that "low-altitude flight" generally referred to a height between 100 and 1,000 meters above ground. No matter how low something flew, there was a limit.

But this thing appeared to be flying only about... one meter above the ground?

It was practically skimming the surface!

What kind of aircraft could dive to that altitude?

The enemy's descent to this height had clearly slowed it down. It was small, completely invisible when flying at high altitudes and high speeds. Given the circumstances, they speculated that its body had some kind of anti-radar coating, rendering it invisible to their detection systems. Now that it was flying between the camp buildings, the militants finally got a glimpse of their enemy.

This was not a good sign.

It meant that a massacre was imminent.

A fort locked onto the enemy, and heavy-caliber artillery rained down. These were anti-tank armor-piercing rounds, powerful enough to tear through the armor of a tank. But the enemy didn't dodge—the red and gold figure charged straight at the fort, ignoring the barrage.

Bang!

With a heavy impact, the enemy used its own body like a cannonball, smashing through the fort's solid structure.

The soldiers who saw this were stunned.

Even though it was flying low, the aircraft had physically smashed through a heavily fortified military structure—something no aviation weapon in the world was supposed to do. It was beyond comprehension, beyond the capabilities of modern military technology. It was as if they were facing something supernatural.

A ghost of steel—something that couldn't be killed by bullets or artillery.

After penetrating the fort, the enemy's tail flame almost formed a complete circle in the air. It pushed forward, performing a maneuver that defied logic, and landed with a metallic clang.

It finally stopped.

Countless eyes focused on the terrifying figure—an enemy that made their blood run cold.

They realized that this incredible figure looked... like a person.

By this point, Iron Man had systematically taken out all the heavy weaponry that could threaten his armor. Now, it was just a matter of dealing with the remaining soldiers. Charlie, piloting Iron Man's armor, landed, and the suit stood upright, mechanical joints clicking into place.

Iron Man was on the ground.

Bullets rained down on him as the soldiers desperately fired at the incomprehensible figure, their fear and confusion channeled through every pull of the trigger.

The armor was surrounded by flying sparks, the bullets clanging off the metal like a symphony of destruction.

These were experienced soldiers—each had taken cover, firing from behind barricades and obstacles. Iron Man, however, stood in the open, allowing himself to be hit, a stark contrast to his opponents.

But he wasn't just standing there for show. In those few moments, Charlie had already targeted every enemy in sight using the armor's advanced targeting system.

He selected the weapon system, pressed the launch button, and with a soft click, a mini-gun barrel popped out of Iron Man's shoulder.

There was almost no sound as the shots were fired. Each round seemed to be precision-guided, locking onto a different target the moment it left the barrel.

Thud, thud, thud—

A series of dull impacts echoed across the camp.

One shot per target. With AI-assisted aiming, not a single round missed. Each bullet found its mark, and even the barriers the soldiers hid behind were no match for the armor-piercing rounds.

After just three bursts of fire, in under two seconds, every enemy had fallen.

Iron Man remained where he was, unmoving, not even lifting a finger.