A squadron of B-17 Flying Fortresses is flying in heavy rain, their engines a guttural counterpoint to the wind's fury. They were the steel birds of the 8th Air Force, their wings heavy with explosives, their bellies loaded with the raw power to devastate.
Sergeant Miller, the co-pilot, adjusted his goggles and peered through the downpour, his brow furrowed with concentration. The world below was a swirling mass of green, the jungle canopy broken only by the occasional glint of water reflecting the dim light of the overcast sky.
"Visibility's getting worse, sir," he said, his voice muffled by the roar of the four engines. "We're gonna be lucky to see the target."
Captain Jam, the pilot, didn't reply. His eyes were fixed on the instrument panel, his face pale and drawn under the flickering green glow of the dials. The wind buffeted the aircraft, sending it swaying like a drunken giant.
"Any sign of the other formations?" Jam asked, his voice tight.
Miller shook his head. "Nothing yet, sir. Radio's been crackling with static, too."
Jam grunted, anxiety twisting his gut. They were given this mission urgently, and now the weather was turning against them. They have to bomb the tribesmen, who have gathered to fight against the empire.
The rain seemed to be intensifying, each drop now a stinging needle against the aircraft's skin. Miller wiped the condensation from his goggles. He could just barely make out the silhouettes of other B-17s in the formation, their outlines ghostly against the downpour.
"There they are, sir," he said, pointing. "Just ahead."
Jam nodded, relief momentarily washing over his face. He adjusted the aircraft's course, pulling The Lucky Lady into formation with the other bombers. The aircraft, all in a neat line, looked like a squadron of silver birds flying through a storm, their engines a symphony of thunder.
Inside the bomb bay, Sergeant Smith, the bombardier, was meticulously checking the bomb release mechanism. He was a young man, barely out of his teens, but his face was etched with the stoicism of a veteran.
"Everything set, sir," he said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.
Lieutenant Davies, the navigator, nodded silently. He was a man of few words, his focus on the map spread before him, his fingers tracing the lines that led them to their target.
"Target in sight, sir," he said, his voice sharp.
Jam, his eyes glued to the instruments, nodded. He gave the signal, and the B-17s in the formation began to turn, their wings slicing through the rain. As The Lucky Lady approached the target, the world below slowly came into focus. The dense jungle canopy gave way to a clearing, they saw the huts of the tribes. They noticed hundreds of warriors who had gathered in the village. But what caught their attention the most were two 80-foot Brontosaurus.
Their simple targets
Smith took his position, his eyes fixed on the sight through the bomb bay. He adjusted the bomb release mechanism, his hands steady, his face expressionless.
"Bombs away!" he shouted, his voice a scream against the roar of the engines.
A moment later, the bombs were released, falling from the belly of the B-17 like silver tears. They arced through the air, their trajectory lit by the faint glow of the bombs' fuses. They plunged towards the target, the air filled with the sound of their descent.
★★★—————————
The sound of engines roared through the jungle.
The soldiers moved stealthily through the jungle, their eyes scanning the dense foliage for any sign of the tribesmen. Suddenly, a volley of arrows rained down on them from above, forcing them to take cover behind the trees.
Although the bombings caused heavy casualties among the tribal forces and many of the survivors lost morale and fled in fear . However, several warriors also decided to fight to the end. Since they were real warriors who grew up fighting terrible monsters from a young age
The soldiers returned fire, their bullets tearing through the undergrowth as they tried to locate their elusive enemy. The tribesmen moved with uncanny speed and agility, their knowledge of the terrain giving them a distinct advantage in the battle.
The tribesmen fought with a ferocity and determination that was unmatched, their primitive weapons proving to be just as deadly as the soldiers' modern firearms.
"Ha! These indigenous people still dare to fight us," a soldier commented in surprise.
"Be careful."
In the midst of the chaos, a lone tribesman emerged from the shadows, his eyes filled with a fierce determination. He raised his spear high, ready to strike a fatal blow against the soldiers who had invaded his land.
But before he could make his move, a shot rang out, and the tribesman fell to the ground, his lifeless body crumpling to the forest floor. The soldiers looked up to see their commanding officer standing before them, his weapon smoking in his hand.
Hans's eyes were cold as he surveyed the tribe people, his lips curling into a cruel smile.
"Capture them all," he ordered, his voice carrying over the sounds of the jungle. "Kill anyone who resists."
.....
Chieftain Astra fought with the strength of a hundred men, his fists pounding against the soldiers. He was injured in the bombardment attack, but he still decided to fight.
"Great warriors! Don't give up. We will fight until our last breath! We will not let these people take over us" Astra roared
A wave of roars, a mixture of fear and defiance, rippled through the tribe. They were warriors, and they would defend their home.
The battle raged on, the sound of gunfire and explosions filling the air. The tribal warriors fought with all their might, their tigers, Therizinosaurus, and leopards roaring in defiance. But the soldiers were relentless, their tanks crushing everything in their path.
The tanks were massive, metal behemoths armed with powerful cannons and impenetrable armor. They moved with a mechanical precision that was both awe-inspiring and terrifying.
....
Timba, the leader of Kutu village, was a powerful shaman whose presence now radiated an aura of seething rage. His weathered face, etched with ancient wisdom, was now contorted by grief and fury. His eyes, deep-set and piercing, burned with a cold, consuming anger, reflecting the pain of a broken spirit. His long, white hair flowed like a silver river down his back, now stained with the blood of his people. He was a man of imposing stature, his body lean and wiry, yet his movements were sharp and erratic, driven by a primal thirst for vengeance. His heart burned with a fire hotter than any forge, fueled by the ashes of his home and his loved ones.
He saw the tanks, and he thought they were monsters of the empire. He was ready to unleash his anger on them. He began to chant his magic.
*From the embers, I call to thee, Ancient fire, set my spirit free. Crimson glow, ignite my soul, Forge my will, make me whole.*
Timba raises his hands towards the sky
Flames of fire appeared from the sky and hit the tanks. But the tanks simply plowed through the flames, their engines roaring as they closed in on their target.
Timba was surprised. Because his fire flame was very powerful. But it had no effect on these monsters. He used more of his power. He saw the warriors of the tribes fall one by one. He knew that they all would die. But he wanted to defeat an iron monster before he died.