The blood-soaked corpse hit the ground like a torn sack stuffed with dough, making a wet, heavy thud.
The tent remained mostly silent. The officers gripping bayonets dripping with blood had red-rimmed eyes and labored breaths. Many of them had been loudly echoing the inflammatory speech only moments earlier. Marek Koletszky was not the first man to have his throat cut—there had been many officers before him who lacked foresight and continually obstructed the City of Immortals' efforts to educate the guerrillas. Even though he knew it was unlikely, Victor von Doom still hoped Marek Koletszky would be the last officer to die at the hands of his own men. This method of purging was not particularly clever, and it could easily damage the guerrillas' morale. He would have preferred men like that to die on the battlefield, their deaths used to stir the fighting spirit of others.
"Send an assault team to surround their camp. Don't let a single one escape. The rest of you, keep an eye on your own units. I don't want anything to go wrong." Victor von Doom addressed one of the officers. "I'll go persuade them myself. Until then, try not to fire. Enough blood has been spilled today."
"Yes, sir!" The man in the gray standard-issue uniform hastily saluted, then strode out. At Victor von Doom's gesture, the others also could not wait to leave the command tent. The officers who had taken part in the murder washed the slick blood from their hands and bayonets in a basin, their faces pale, then lowered their heads and departed the tent reeking of blood.
They would bury this matter in their hearts forever. The murder would bind them into a small clique, just as they whispered among themselves while leaving together. These officers had