The President's Mansion in the capital of Sen Republic, Bangasu, was so brightly lit it was almost blinding.
The crystal chandeliers made the gilded cutlery gleam, while the air was thick with the intense scent of expensive cigars and the cloying aroma of French perfu. The long banquet table was draped with a perfectly starched linen tablecloth, piled high with delicacies—chilled lobster, sizzling roasted antelope, and mounds of caviar.
The new elites of Sen Republic and the high-ranking officers of the governnt army wore brand-new formal attire. Their faces were plastered with the exhilarated smiles of survivors, raising glasses and engaging in grand conversations.
President Isis held a champagne glass, weaving through the guests, receiving waves of complints and congratulations. His dark, chiseled face seed to expand with a glow of victory, each deep wrinkle smoothing out.
"For the peace of the Sen Republic! For the wise leadership of President Isis!" A governnt army general with a brand-new star insignia on his shoulder shouted with a flushed face, his voice overpowering the light-hearted lody played by the band.
"For peace! For the President!"
The chorus of echoes rose and fell, and the clinking of glasses rang crisp and clear.
However, in this deliberately crafted, sparkling sea of revelry, the absence of a core figure was like a silent, massive black hole.
People's gazes swept over, instinctively searching for that na—Song Heping.
The one who, in a short ti, had swept through the Lumar rebels like a storm, tearing apart chaos and placing the scepter back into the hands of Isis.
The figure that should be seated at the principal guest seat, receiving the highest honor, was nowhere to be found.
Only occasionally, when Isis glanced at the empty seat reserved for the principal guest, a faint shadow of unease flashed deep in his eyes, so swift it seed like an illusion of the lighting.
The noisy celebration banquet was like a grand drama without a true protagonist.
Several hundred kiloters away from Bangasu, in the northern part of the Sen Republic.
The dry, scorching air was thick with dust, diesel, and the tallic tang unique to cooling tal.
There were no crystal chandeliers here, no champagne, only a few high-powered searchlights flooding the warehouse of the 'Musician' Defense Company's core base in stark white.
Beneath the vast steel do, several old BMP-1 armored vehicles lay in silence, like beasts exhausted after a fierce battle.
Their outer armor was riddled with dramatic bullet scars, charred black with burns, and twisted tal folds, silently recounting the carnage of not long ago.
In the center of the warehouse, several military ammo boxes were casually arranged as makeshift tables, heaped with bottles of cheap, indistinctly labeled vodka, locally brewed murky palm wine, so charred antelope skewers, and piles of compressed biscuits.
There were no exquisite utensils, only rough military ss tins and cups.
Song Heping stood beside the ammo boxes, his silhouette stretched long by the glaring white light overhead, his face showing none of the superficial joy from the President's Mansion banquet, only a heavy peace soaked in gunpowder and blood.
He picked up an opened bottle of vodka, the potent sll of high-proof alcohol quickly perating the air.
He did not speak, only silently and solemnly pouring the clear, pungent liquid in front of him onto the dry, oil-stained ground.
The crystalline liquor was swiftly absorbed by the greedy earth, leaving behind dark, irregular stains like two silent lines of tears.
"Alexander, Vasily."
Song Heping's voice was deep, penetrating the silence of the hangar, clearly heard by everyone gathered around the ammo boxes.
There was no sorrowful embellishnt in that voice, only a steel-like certainty.
"Farewell."
The air seed to freeze for a mont.
In the vast space of the hangar, only the faint sound of vodka dripping on the floor could be heard.
"Farewell! Brothers!"
Soon, like a fuse lit, the coarse reverberating response exploded.
"Farewell!"
"Cheers, mates! Next life, don't be damned pilots!"
"Vodka aplenty! Drink your fill before you hit the road!"
The voices ca from those gathered around the ammo boxes.
In their eyes, there was none of the grandeur of the banquet hall, only the wildness and fatigue of the jungle and desert.
They were the core mbers of the 'Musician' Defense.
Their enal mugs clashed heavily together, the inferior liquor splashing, mingling with sand and being gulped down fiercely with upturned heads.
The liquid burned their throats as well as the unembellished tribute deep in their hearts to their fallen comrades.
The warehouse was filled with the intense aroma of a complex mixture of alcohol, sweat, and engine oil, replacing the luxurious scent of the President's Mansion.
White Bear picked up a bottle of liquor, downed half of it in one go, his face imdiately turning red. He set down the mug and took a few steps to one of the armored vehicles, his calloused palm slamming heavily on the edge of a deep bullet hole with a dull "clang".
The warehouse lights shone on his chiseled face, illuminating his eyes filled with both regret and a near-fanatical excitent.
"Damn it! Look at this dent!"
He spat out, almost spraying, his voice buzzing under the steel do,
"Those Lumar bastards were using anti-aircraft guns! If it had been those delicate young ladies from the North Atlantic Treaty Organization taking a hit like this, they'd be damned dead inside! But these old babes produced by our motherland? They took it and ca back!"
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