Chapter 1800 - 1375: Poison Fog Enshrouds the City

On the west side of Tetric City, on the top floor of a five-story building.

Zakavi stood in front of a shattered window, dust clinging to the lenses of the binoculars in his hands.

From here, he could look down over most of the Central District.

The neighborhoods that had once belonged to the 1515 Armed were now being devoured inch by inch by the attacking forces.

To the east, the flag of Samir's Tenth Division had already been planted on the water tower in the industrial zone; to the north, Abu You's Kurd Armed convoy was crushing the last defensive line, the dust they raised clearly visible in the morning light.

"They're advancing very fast."

A hoarse voice from his adjutant sounded behind him.

Zakavi did not turn around.

His fingers gently rubbed the focusing ring of the binoculars, as if caressing some precious musical instrument.

"Fast is good," he sneered. "The deeper they go, the harder it is to pull back."

The other five men in the room all fell silent.

They had all followed Zakavi for many years and understood what this sentence meant.

On the city map spread out on the table, seventeen points were marked in red—that was the "gift" that had long since been carefully laid out.

"All positions confirmed ready?"

Zakavi finally turned around.

There was no expression on his face, but his eyes were frighteningly bright, as if some cold flame was burning in them.

"Confirmed." The short, stocky man in charge of the demolition works nodded. "We tested the detonation lines three times, recalibrated them just yesterday."

He paused, his Adam's apple bobbing twice.

"Sir, those chemical agents… some of the canisters have already started leaking. We may only have one chance."

Zakavi walked to the table, his fingers brushing over those red dots on the map.

His movements were very light, very slow, as if he were performing some kind of ritual.

"Once is enough."

The radio suddenly burst out with a jagged, urgent call: "Third Street in the Eastern District has fallen! Repeat, Third Street in the Eastern District—"

Zakavi reached out and switched off the radio.

The room instantly fell quiet, leaving only the faint explosions in the distance, like the dying wheeze of this city.

Ever since replacing Omar as Tetric's highest military Commander, Zakavi had known this city could not be held.

Song Heping's methods were too sophisticated.

This bastard had sealed the Iraq-Syria border, cutting off any support from the Siria side. For three months, the other side had been neither impatient nor hurried, like a cat watching a mouse, keeping the garrison inside the city in a constant state of tension.

Since they would lose the city sooner or later, they had to be ready to drag the enemy down with them.

"Have all fighters who can still move fall back to the underground shelters."

Zakavi's voice was eerily calm. "According to Plan B. Those willing to embrace martyrdom stay. The others… give them ten minutes."

"Ten minutes isn't enough to evacuate everyone—"

"Then it won't be everyone," Zakavi cut off his adjutant. "Execute the order."

The men in the room looked at each other. No one moved.

"You go as well," Zakavi said.

"Sir, you—"

"I want to watch it happen."

Zakavi turned back toward the window and raised the binoculars.

"I want to see with my own eyes how our gas devours them."

No one spoke again; everyone left in silence.

A few minutes later, only Zakavi remained in the room.

He took a black remote control out of his pocket, about the size of a TV remote, but with only a single red button, covered by a transparent plastic guard.

He flipped up the guard, his thumb hovering over the button.

"Come then, heretics!"

The city outside the window grew clearer in the morning light.

Zakavi's lips moved, silently murmuring something.

Then he pressed the button.

The first explosions were very muffled, like groans rising from deep underground.

Through the binoculars, Zakavi saw three buildings in the eastern part of the city simultaneously swell from within, split open, and then collapse.

They did not blow outward, but caved in on themselves—this was a carefully calculated demolition, the purpose not to destroy the buildings, but to release what was inside them.

Yellow smoke billowed out of the rubble.

At first it was only a few thick strands, like pus seeping from the wounds of the structures.

Then more and more, thicker and thicker, and under the push of the light morning breeze, it began to spread along the streets.

The smoke was very strange.

It was not like ordinary dust and smoke that drifted lightly; it was thicker, heavier, flowing along the ground, rolling and pooling when it hit obstacles, then seeking new cracks to keep moving forward.

Zakavi adjusted the focus and trained the lens on a main street.

One of Samir's convoys was in the middle of turning around there to retreat, but it was already too late.

The yellow smoke surged around the corner like a tide, instantly swallowing the last two vehicles.

Even from several hundred meters away, Zakavi could see the soldiers' reactions.

Some fumbled to put on gas masks, some futilely tried to cover their mouths and noses with their clothes, some jumped straight off the vehicles, only to drop to their knees after a few steps, coughing and vomiting violently.

Those were the early symptoms of inhaling the gas.

Spasms in the respiratory tract, bronchial constriction; the victims would feel an iron hoop clamped tight around their chests, every breath turning into a painful struggle.

But that was not all.

Zakavi shifted the lens toward the northern sector.

The smoke there was darker, carrying a sickly brownish-yellow hue.

He saw Abu You's armored vehicles.

The convoy was trapped in the narrow street by collapsed buildings, unable to advance or retreat.

The yellow-brown smoke seeped out from the mouths of the sewers, from shattered windows, from every crack, slowly filling the entire street.

The armored doors opened and several soldiers staggered out.

One of them had barely run a few steps before clutching his own throat and dropping to his knees.