Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 637 The Emperor's Whispers.

November 1st marks the start of one of Mexico's most important festivals—the Day of the Dead (Día de Muertos).

This is a day to remember the deceased, but instead of sadness, it is filled with color, music, food, and celebration of the cycle of life.

People believe that their deceased loved ones will return to the world on this day and reunite with the living.

However, for Belsaria, this day held a deeper and more personal meaning.

Mount Tepeja, the hill famous for the transfiguration of Our Lady of Guadalupe, is now enveloped in a solemn and gentle atmosphere.

The mountain path leading to the cathedral at the summit was crowded with people coming to pay their respects and on pilgrimage. The air was filled with the strong and unique fragrance of marigolds, mixed with the smell of burning candle wax and the sweet aroma of food.

Colorful paper cutouts, adorned with skulls, flowers, and various patterns, swayed gently in the breeze. Altars of all sizes lined the mountain path, piled high with the deceased's favorite foods, drinks, photographs, and lit candles, illuminating the way for their returning spirits.

Victor and his group did not take the crowded main road.

Several black bulletproof SUVs silently drove onto a secluded side road and stopped in a private area with a wide view halfway up the mountain.

Far from the hustle and bustle, this place offers panoramic views of Mexico City's twinkling lights below and the magnificent silhouette of the Guadalupe Cathedral in the distance.

An elaborately arranged but relatively simple altar has been set up.

The altar was covered with a white cloth, and in the center were several photos. One was of the grandfather, Rumsfeld, wearing an American military uniform and looking serious. Another was of Belsaria's father, also wearing a suit.

The altar was set with traditional Day of the Dead offerings: bread symbolizing life, crisp tequila, clear water, salt, lit white candles, piles of marigolds, and some of the food they might have enjoyed in life—a few pieces of bread sprinkled with sugar, some fruit, and a small dish of chili peppers.

Victor and Belsaria stood side by side before the pristine white altar, the flickering candlelight illuminating the familiar faces in the photograph.

The latter's gaze lingered on the photos of his father and grandfather for a long time, his tense shoulders trembling slightly.

Finally, a suppressed sob escaped her throat, and she collapsed onto the edge of the altar, her forehead pressed against the cold surface, her shoulders heaving violently.

“Dad…” Her voice broke, thick with nasal tone, “Grandfather… I brought you cornbread… and, Dad, your favorite chili peppers… Did you see them?… I miss you so much…” Tears silently streamed down her face, soaking a corner of the altar cloth.

Victor didn't speak immediately, but stood quietly beside her, like a silent mountain. He reached out, his broad palm carrying a steady warmth, and gently placed it on Belsaria's back, which was heaving from crying. The movement was almost deliberate in its gentleness, completely different from his usual coldness.

It can also be seen as a way to soothe the guilt in my heart.

“They know.” Viktor’s voice was low and calm, like a night breeze sweeping across a hillside. “They’re right here. Look at this candlelight, they can hear the fragrance of these flowers.”

His gaze swept over the photograph on the altar, his deep eyes filled with an indescribable complexity of emotions. If it were anyone else, they would have already felt guilty.

To be honest, Viktor was the "mastermind" behind their deaths.

Belsaria's crying gradually subsided, turning into intermittent sobs.

She remained lying there, as if drawing invisible solace from the altar, or as if pouring out all her pent-up longing and sorrow into this small space protected by candlelight and marigolds.

Viktor's hand never left his side; that silent companionship, in the flickering candlelight, was more steadfast than any words.

The city lights below and the outline of the church on the mountaintop are blurred in the night. Only the candlelight on the altar shines persistently, illuminating the silent yet warm bridge between the living and the dead.

Three hours later.

The candles on the altar had burned down to a short stub.

Belsaria leaned against Victor, her face still wet with tears; the long grief had exhausted most of her strength.

"It's time to go," Victor said in a low voice.

There will be someone specifically in charge here at night to ensure the candles stay lit for a long time.

Belsaria nodded obediently, letting Viktor help her to her feet. She couldn't help but look back a few more times. Her steps were unsteady, but Viktor's arm was firm and strong, supporting her as she walked towards the car.

After getting into the car, she curled up in the back seat, wearily closing her eyes. Victor sat beside her. She opened the window a crack, letting in a refreshing breeze.

As the car approached the main road at the foot of the mountain, another black sedan silently followed, driving alongside for a moment before stopping in front. Victor rolled down his window a crack.

Internal Affairs Secretary George Smiley got out of the car, walked to the window, and spoke in a low, urgent voice:

"Your Majesty, urgent report from the Medellín front: the drug traffickers are putting up extremely fierce resistance, and we have suffered considerable losses. The frontline command requests authorization for an 'indiscriminate attack' to destroy the core of the resistance."

The air inside the car solidified.

Viktor stared straight ahead, his face expressionless, except for a slight curl of his fingers resting on his knees.

"Has the military approved it?"

"Yes, the military has signed the order and is awaiting your final instructions."

Victor glanced at Belsaria, who seemed to be asleep beside him, then looked at Smiley. He turned his head slightly, gesturing for Smiley to come closer.

Smiley immediately pressed his ear close to the crack in the car window.

Viktor spoke in a very low voice, saying just a few words.

No one else heard it.

But Smiley's pupils contracted, and he immediately nodded, "Understood!"

The car windows rolled up, and the convoy resumed its journey.

Smiley watched the convoy drive away before getting into his car.

Victor leaned back in his seat, and the car fell into a deathly silence.

He reached out and gently pulled Belsaria's slipped coat up her shoulder, his movement almost imperceptibly gentle.

Outside the car window, the lights of Mexico City flashed by, and Victor's gaze calmly drifted into the distance.

Meanwhile, in Medellín.

The burning streets were thick with acrid smoke.

A small squad of government infantry, under the cover of armored vehicles, cautiously advanced along the main road littered with rubble and charred corpses.

Gunfire rang out sporadically, and most of the resistance had been reduced to ashes under the "scorched earth" order.

The soldiers' eyes were sharp as they scanned every shadow with their guns.

Suddenly, a figure staggered out from behind the half-collapsed shop door frame by the roadside. It was a middle-aged man, dressed in rags, his face covered in soot, his hands raised high above his head, his whole body trembling violently.

"Civilians!" the soldier at the front growled, his gun barrel instinctively lowering slightly.

The rest of the team also instantly became alert, but saw that the other party was only trembling and raising his hand, and his movements were slightly slow.

The armored vehicle's engine hummed deeply.

The man's eyes were vacant and bloodshot, staring blankly at the advancing soldiers and the cold armored vehicles. He stood by the roadside like a terrifying sculpture.

Just as the squad's vanguard was about to brush past him, and the heavy tracks of the armored vehicle screeched as they rolled over the gravel, a near-mad light suddenly flashed in the man's eyes, and all the fear on his face was instantly replaced by a ferocious fanaticism.

"Long live Pablo!!!!!"

He suddenly let out a roar that sounded inhuman, his raised hands slammed down, and he shot forward like an arrow, not to run away, but to lunge straight and frantically toward the flank of the nearest armored vehicle!
"Long live Pablo!!!" he roared again, his voice so shrill it drowned out the engine and the distant explosions. "Enemy attack!" A soldier's warning and the sound of a gun bolt being pulled back rang out almost simultaneously!

But it's too close!

Just before the man was about to crash into the armored vehicle's heavy side armor, the outlines of tubular objects wrapped around his chest and dense wires were vaguely visible beneath his tattered coat.

"Bomb!!" a sharp-eyed soldier shouted in horror.

Ta-ta-ta-ta-!
The nearest soldier reacted extremely quickly, his gun spitting fire, and the bullet instantly tore through the man's chest and abdomen.

boom--! ! !
A violent explosion occurred next to the armored vehicle!

Flames shot into the sky, and scorching shockwaves swept across the area, carrying metal fragments and mangled flesh. The two closest soldiers were violently thrown into the air, the side skirts of the armored vehicle were twisted and deformed by the explosion, emitting a piercing metallic groan, and thick smoke and dust once again filled the street.

The smell of gunpowder mixed with the fresh stench of blood was choking and made it hard to breathe.

"Fuck you!"

Curses and curses rose and fell.

These Mexican soldiers, who had been fighting on the front lines for a long time, were also feeling a bit uneasy.

The main problem is that this kind of almost religious suicide attack is terrifying. Who wouldn't be scared?
Pablo…

Does it really have that much appeal?

The man and his fanatical shouts, along with the destruction hidden within him, turned into charred and twisted remains on the ground, leaving only the echo of "Long live Pablo," haunting the surviving soldiers like a ghost.

In the command post outside the city.

The air was thick with the pungent smell of gunpowder, sweat, and cheap coffee.

The static hiss of the radio, the clatter of keyboards, and the hushed yet urgent reports from the staff created a tense background noise.

On the huge map, the dots representing the enemy and our side are intertwined, and the urban blocks marked "Resistance Core" flash with a blinding red light.

"Chief of Staff, Supreme Command orders that any means are permitted, including the destruction of Medellín!" (Some words are restricted.)
A staff officer raised his hand and shouted at Chief of Staff Frederick von Paulus, who was looking at a map.

The command center fell into a deathly silence, with only the low hum of the equipment running.

Frederick von Paulus had a cigarette between his fingers. He was under immense pressure. He had initially thought Medellin would be easy to take, but the city of over a million people had left him exhausted.

Yesterday they were still shouting that they would spend the Day of the Dead inside.

Damn it, I'm practically a ghost myself!

Upon hearing the staff officer's words, his hand trembled, and he squinted, a bead of cold sweat appearing on his forehead. It wasn't from the heat, but from knowing the consequences of issuing this order.

About a minute or two later, he let out a long breath.

"Attention all units! Ground forces to retreat and conduct scorched earth operations. Full fire coverage of the Medellín area, indiscriminate! Air strike groups, empty ammunition magazines! Ground heavy infantry groups, advance! Crush them! Now! Immediately!"

The order was like lighting a fuse.

The silence of the entire command post was suddenly replaced by shouts and commands.

Medellín city center - Alpha-Charlie area.

One second ago, fierce street fighting was still going on. Drug traffickers and militants, relying on concrete ruins, narrow alleys and a network of underground sewers, were frantically repelling the advancing government soldiers with automatic weapons and rocket launchers. Bullets hit the walls, splashing up gravel and dust, and the flashes of explosions occasionally illuminated distorted, desperate or fanatical faces.

Suddenly, the Mexican army opposite them receded like a receding tide.

"Won?"

"They retreated? The government troops retreated!!!"

They shouted excitedly, and some even stood on sandbags, waving their guns vigorously, overjoyed.

But the next second...

The sky was torn apart, and a piercing shriek came from afar, instantly drowning out all the sounds of gunfire.

Hundreds of rioters and drug traffickers who were cheering in the defensive zone suddenly looked up and saw planes flying overhead. Then the cabin doors opened and countless napalm bombs, high-explosive bombs, and cluster bombs were dropped... A deadly rain poured down.

"Oh, God!!!"

Boom! Boom! Boom—!!!
The deafening explosions continued, shaking the earth. A blazing fireball shot into the sky, instantly engulfing the entire block of buildings.

The reinforced concrete was torn apart, thrown up, and melted like paper. The shockwave swept everything away, turning the armed men hiding inside, along with their bunkers, into dust.

Thick smoke billowed, obscuring the sky and the air was instantly filled with the pungent smell of burning flesh and the stench of charred flesh.

Immediately afterwards, a heavy, heart-stopping tremor came from the ground.

The government forces' armored formations, main battle tanks and heavy infantry fighting vehicles, surged like an iron torrent, crushing over the still-burning ruins and remains of corpses.

Heavy cannons and coaxial machine guns spat long tongues of fire, tearing any moving, resisting targets to shreds. The salvos of heavy artillery were like hammer blows, repeatedly slamming into those stubborn strongholds that had not yet been completely destroyed by the air raids.

The drug traffickers' resistance crumbled instantly under the overwhelming firepower. The complex terrain and fortifications they relied on for resistance became as fragile as sandcastles under the relentless bombardment.

The communication channel was filled with the drug lord's terrified and desperate screams and curses, but they were quickly drowned out by even more violent explosions.

A drug lord, his face covered in blood, had just crawled out of a half-collapsed underground bunker when, before he could even catch his breath, he was mercilessly run over by the tank tracks.

The warehouse containing a large quantity of weapons and ammunition was directly hit by a precision-guided bomb, triggering a secondary explosion that threw debris from several blocks into the air again. A few individuals attempting to escape through the sewers were burned to a crisp by the burning gasoline that had been poured in.

The losses were so severe that words cannot adequately describe them.

This was a devastating, systematic cleansing. The firelight illuminated the indifferent advance of government soldiers, and also the scattered limbs and charred, contorted corpses amidst the ruins. In Medellín, the heart of the region, the drug cartel's influence was being transformed by the Supreme Will into a veritable, burning wasteland.

Only a few of the most cunning and fortunate remnants, taking advantage of the chaos and smoke, managed to burrow into deeper, darker corners like rats.

And on this day...

A keen observer noticed.

Medellín could not be detected by GPS or satellites. Some people didn't care, but those who followed the Allied war daily noticed something was wrong.

Under what circumstances is a city-wide blackout necessary?
and…

Even local reporters couldn't be reached; they couldn't get through on the phone.

wrong!

Something really big is happening in Medellín.

And it's the kind of big thing that's enough to shock the whole world!

……

(End of this chapter)