Victor moved like a ghost in the night.
He found the scared, the broken, the desperate—from both sides of the war. Ash Vultures defectors, scared of dying. Iron Spur survivors, betrayed by their leaders. Even some Los Muertos civilians, hungry for peace.
He whispered hope into their ears. And when hope didn't work, fear did.
From the Colombian cartel's outcasts, he took hardened Brazilian killers.
From Iron Spurs, he took French mercenaries and old Brits.
From the battlefield, he looted French rifles, gear, and maps.
In one day, he built an army. Eighty men. All loyal to him.
He called them The Dustborn—a police force made of ghosts.
The next day, they marched onto the battlefield.
Eighty versus hundreds.
They slaughtered half.
The day after that, they returned.
Silent. Efficient. Ruthless.
By the third sunrise, the war was over.
The Ash Vultures were in ruins.
The Iron Spurs were scattered.
And the people of Los Muertos bowed before Victor.
He didn't want a crown. But he took it.
The West had a new king.