The door to the farmhouse creaked open, and Laith slipped inside, his arrival silent but immediately sensed. Hazim, who had been leaning over a map with the Black Knight, snapped his head up. His initial relief at seeing a friendly face curdled into pure alarm when he recognized his younger brother."Laith?" Hazim's voice was a sharp whisper. "What are you doing here? Who sent you?""I sent myself," Laith said, his chin held high with a mix of defiance and pride. "Malik told me where to find you. I'm here to help.""No," Hazim said. He crossed the room in three quick strides, grabbing Laith by the arm. "This is not a place for you. It is far too dangerous. You need to go home, right now.""I'm not a child anymore, Hazim! I can fight just as well as you can!""It is not about how well you fight!" Hazim insisted, his voice rising slightly before he forced it back to a hushed tone. "It is about the burden of this! I will not have your blood on my hands. Go home."It was then that the tra

The heavy metal door sealed shut behind them with a definitive clang, plunging them into the humming silence of Professor Riyad’s secret underground lab. The air was cool and carried the faint smell of ozone and old concrete.“It’s not much, but it’s secure,” Professor Riyad said, activating a master control panel. Rows of lights flickered on, illuminating a vast, cavernous space filled with abandoned storage racks and state-of-the-art workstations. “I’ve been working here for years. No one knows it exists.”Ali walked forward, his footsteps echoing. He looked around at the sheer scale of the place. “It’s incredible,” he admitted. “Massive. A lot more room to breathe than that cramped cave my friends are stuck in.”“Precisely why I chose it,” the Professor replied, typing commands into a console. “And it has other advantages. Everything you lost—the system’s core data, the weapon schematics, the armor designs, I have backups of it all here. I can restore everything.”Ali’s expression

A week after the Vice President had announced that the existence of the Knights was now illegal and had declared them enemies of the state on charges of treason and being outlaws, Ali was watching the trial on live official television. His friends, Hadi and Haitham, were leading the Knights' defense team in court.Although Hadi presented powerfully convincing arguments and irrefutable evidence of the Knights' innocence, the judge's blatant bias toward the military was unmistakable. The courtroom had been packed with soldiers and army generals; the authorities had not permitted any opposition members or Knights' supporters to enter, nor had they even allowed a peaceful protest to gather outside the courthouse. It was a deliberate strategy to isolate the defense team and crush their morale. Nevertheless, Haitham and Hadi stood unwavering, their heads held high, projecting a defiant fearlessness alongside their devoted team.The atmosphere in the courtroom was thick with despair. Hadi, h

After the video, the people were outraged and emboldened. They took to the streets in massive demonstrations against the military, demanding that the army leave the Knights alone and that immediate elections be held to choose a completely new government—one with no ties to the military, the previous government, or even the powerful clans. The streets erupted, led by the Lawyers' Union, the Doctors' Union, the Teachers' Union, the Workers' and Peasants' Union, and the Journalists' Union.The official press and state media tried to ignore the protests and refused to cover them, but the people filmed everything. Independent media figures, journalists, and lawyers broadcast the events live from their social media accounts. Everyone saw everything.The most fervent protesters were the youth of Jenin. Their demonstrations reached the gates of the prison, demanding the release of Jamil and the other captured Knights. The army attacked, beating them violently. Elders from the clans tried to i

The edited video file glowed on Laith’s computer screen. With a final, satisfied nod, he attached it to a secure message and sent it to Ali on their private network. When Ali received the video he chose the timing in which he'll podcast it live like he did last time with precision: 4 PM, the hour when the daily protests were scheduled to reach their peak, when the streets would be thick with people and frustration.At the appointed time, the screens flickered. Across the city, on public billboards, television sets in cafes, the signal was hijacked. The grainy basement footage replaced regular programming. It showed a cleaned-up but weary Abu Sarhan, then panned to the imposing figure of Hazim in his fiery red armor.A hush fell over the crowds. People stopped marching. Conversations died mid-sentence. Everyone stopped to listen to Hazem’s clear voice. His words, a mix of righteous conviction and stark warning, held them captive. Even those who had been sitting on curbs or at cafe stan