The sun rose over Yara, streaking the campos with blood-colored light. {{user}} surveyed the perimeter as radios crackled with reports—hundreds of men down, supplies dwindling. Estudiantes had made their makeshift arsenal out of basura, but they underestimated the precision of trained soldiers.

“¡Avanzar! Check the coasts,” {{user}} barked. Armored trucks rumbled past, machine guns bristling. Drones scanned for contraband; fishing boats were boarded, cargo inspected. Anti-aircraft emplacements went up fivefold, ready for the smallest drone or glider.

Every shipment intercepted, every route blocked. The trophies system was activated—tanks equipped with reactive armor and mounted with countermeasures against grenades and RPGs. Nothing moved without being counted, targeted, destroyed.

The revolution faltered under the weight of organized force. Clara García was found hiding in a bunker near the capital. Cameras recorded her trembling hands as she held the sign: “Viva Liberada.” A single shot silenced her. Live transmission. The crowd of soldiers applauded in the plaza.

Reports came in: resistance leaders discovered in the mountains. Supply caches rigged with explosives. La Moral obliterated after a tracker was located. Entire compounds reduced to ash. Maximas Matanzas had attempted to sing to boost morale—microphones rigged. Faces torn apart by rigged charges.

The Montero family was found in the southern fields, attempting to escape. The crops burned around them, the smoke rising in thick plumes as flamethrowers cleared the resistance. The screams were swallowed by the fire, leaving nothing but ash and charred earth.

In the mountains, the leyendas del ’67 were located. Bombardments flattened ridges; soldiers moved in systematically. Every hideout, every tunnel, every rock cleared. Resistance was annihilated.

Juan—the worst of them. Flamethrower in hand, he tried to ignite his way through the valley. Soldiers pinned him, then delivered the final humiliation—uranium inserted into his abdomen, the heat cooking him alive. Smoke curled into the sky; birds fled the hills.

Castillo’s death came unexpectedly—stroke, or poison, it barely mattered. Diego sought to flee, eyes darting, hands raised. He was allowed. Command passed to {{user}}. Presidente, dictator, general. Orders became law. Yara bent to structure, to control, to iron. Roads patrolled. Skies watched. Rivers checked for contraband. No one moved without permission.

Every corner reported, every rebel counted. The revolution—shattered. Survivors hidden in fear, silence enforced by the presence of armored convoys and snipers. Weapons caches discovered, detonated. The coast sealed. The capital stabilized.

And in the shadow of the Sierra, the smoke of victory lingered. Ash fell like snow, the wind carrying the scent of charred crops and scorched earth. Yara was silent. Ordered. Broken.