Chapter 168: Scenes Of A Dying World 2!

Chapter 168: Scenes Of A Dying World 2!

Carlos Nuñez knelt beside his daughter, his calloused hand trembling as he gently stroked her pale, delicate cheek. Her once-bright eyes were now dim, framed by dark circles that spoke of sleepless nights and unrelenting pain.

Her frail chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, each one a laborious effort. The lively girl who used to chase butterflies in the garden now lay motionless, her thin arms sprawled limply across the bed as though even the act of repositioning herself had become insurmountable.

A strangled sob escaped Carlos' throat, his rugged face twisting in a mix of anguish and fury. He clenched his fists until his knuckles whitened. This isn't living, he thought bitterly. This is torture. His daughter deserved more than this slow descent into nothingness.

He stood abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the wooden floor. He couldn't bear another second of helplessly watching her suffer. There had to be a way-he would find a way.

Without a word, he turned and left the room, his boots thudding heavily against the floorboards. Carlos stormed into his bedroom, his resolve hardening. The middle of the room held a secret few knew about. He pulled back the thick rug, revealing a trapdoor perfectly camouflaged to

blend with the black stone floor. It was an old relic from his past-a past he had buried for the sake of a quiet life. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

With a swift motion, he unlocked the hidden door and swung it open. The air below was cool and heavy with the scent of oil and metal. He descended the narrow staircase, his feet echoing against the stone steps. As he reached the bottom, the dim light revealed an arsenal of weapons meticulously arranged across the underground chamber.

Rows of firearms of every size and caliber lined the walls-pistols, shotguns, sniper rifles, and even a few prototypes he'd never seen in action. Boxes of ammunition were stacked neatly in one corner, each type clearly labeled. It was a warrior's paradise, a grim reminder of the life he once led.

Carlos stood in silence fora moment, taking it all in. His eyes drifted to a particular rifle mounted on the wall. His fingers twitched as the memories surged, unbidden.

—————

He was back in the thick of it, the bitter tang of smoke and blood heavy in the air. The deafening roar of gunfire and the anguished cries of the wounded painted a hellish symphony.

Carlos had locked eyes with Scar, the infamous commander of the Bayleaf Union. The man was a walking nightmare, his face marred by a jagged scar that ran from his temple to his jawline, a testament to countless battles survived.

Scar's cold, calculating gaze bored into Carlos as they circled each other amidst the chaos. In an instant, Scar lunged, his movements swift and brutal. Carlos barely had time to react as a powerful kick sent him sprawling. Pain shot through his ribs, but he refused to give in.

Scar loomed over him, his weapon raised for the final blow. Time seemed to slow as Carlos, lying at an awkward angle, reached for his sidearm. With a surge of adrenaline, he fired.

The shot rang true, piercing Scar's heart. The commander's expression shifted from triumph to shock before he collapsed, lifeless, onto the blood-soaked ground. The battlefield fell silent for a heartbeat, and then erupted in cheers.

Victory was theirs. But for Carlos, it was more than that-it was Survival. It was justice. The memory faded, leaving Carlos with a grim smile. That war had cost him everything- friends, comrades, and a part of his soul. But it had also forged him into a man who could face the impossible.

Now, standing in his underground armory, he felt a flicker of that old fire reignite. He couldn't change the past, but he could fight for the future. For his daughter.

He reached for the rifle, its cold steel familiar and reassuring in his hands. As he checked its ammunition, his mind was already racing through plans and contingencies. Whoever-or whatever- was responsible for his daughter's suffering would soon learn that Carlos Nuñez was a man who didn't back down.

He would save her, no matter the cost.

Carlos Nuñez emerged from his underground armory, the weight of his mission pressing heavily on his shoulders. He carefully sealed the trapdoor, smoothing the rug back into place as though it could hide the storm brewing within him.

Taking a deep breath, he returned to his daughter's room. She lay as she had before, her small frame barely shifting beneath the thin blanket. Carlos leaned over and pressed a tender kiss to her temple. Her skin was cool to the touch, and her eyes, half-lidded with exhaustion, struggled to stay open.

"Papa will be back," he whispered softly, his voice a mix of warmth and steel. "He needs to let off some steam." He brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, lingering for a moment as if trying to commit her fragile image to memory.

Then, without waiting for a response- knowing she couldn't give one- he straightened and turned to leave. Her weak, fluttering gaze followed him as best as it could, but her lips remained still.

The door closed softly behind him, and she was alone once more. Carlos slung a bag across his shoulder, the weight of the firearm inside barely registering.

His steps were purposeful as he strode out of the house and into the dim streets. The world outside was a shadow of its former self. Buildings stood in silent decay, their walls covered in layers of grime and faded propaganda. The air was heavy, laced with the acrid scent of smoke and despair.

He had no clear destination. All he knew was that the fury bubbling in his chest needed release. Every step he took was a defiance against the hunger gnawing at his insides-he hadn't eaten in three days, but hunger was a familiar companion now, just another reminder of how far the world had fallen.

The streets were eerily quiet, save for the occasional distant hum of a Rhemon— agent patrol vehicle. Carlos reached a fork in the road and instinctively took the right path. His mind churned with thoughts, each one adding fuel to the fire of his rage.

Rhemon. The name alone was enough to tighten his grip on the bag's strap. They had done this. They had taken a vibrant, thriving nation and turned it into a wasteland of fear and oppression. And what was his reward for years of service and sacrifice? A life on the brink, teetering between survival and surrender.

A war hero, reduced to this. The irony was bitter, and it stung like a fresh wound. Once hailed as a savior, now he was just another desperate man in a dying world, forced to contemplate stealing or worse-collaborating with the very regime that had destroyed everything he loved.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sharp cry. Carlos froze, his instincts kicking in immediately. He shifted into stealth mode, his body moving with practiced precision as he slipped into the shadows.

He followed the sound, navigating through the narrow alleyways until he reached the corner of a crumbling building. Peeking around the edge, he assessed the scene. A Rhemon agent, clad in the regime's signature black and red uniform, was mercilessly beating a man.

The victim was on his knees, his face bruised and bloodied, yet he clung desperately to a small cart laden with food. The aroma wafted through the air, rich and tantalizing, making Carlos' stomach clench painfully. Freshly steamed vegetables, warm bread-real food, a rarity in these parts.

Carlos' jaw tightened as he took in the Scene. The man's crime was obvious: he had dared to distribute food to the hungry, to offer hope in a place where hope was a commodity punishable by death.

The Rhemon agent struck the man again, sending him sprawling. "You think you can undermine us by playing hero?" the agent sneered, kicking the cart over. The food was stored in a cooler, so it was protected, however, the lid was close to pulling open, the scent of nourishment now mingling with the stench of dirt and despair.

Carlos' hands itched to act, his fingers brushing against the concealed weapon in his bag. He could feel the weight of the rifle, the cold steel promising swift justice. But he knew better than to rush in blindly. He needed a plan-one that wouldn't just save the man but send a message.

This was no longer about letting off steam. This was about rebellion.