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Belgium burned.
Not in one clean apocalypse, but in a rolling collapse—town by town, crossroads by crossroads—each stand broken by grey legions that moved with engines and steel and a cold certainty the Belgians had never faced. The forts of Liège lay behind them as shattered mouths of concrete. The name of the city became a warning whispered on roads clogged with carts and barefoot families.
Refugees ran.
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