Building a Conglomerate in Another World

For the people of Gran Colombia, there was no reprieve. Each dawn brought the same horror—the low hum of Amerathian bombers piercing the morning sky, a sound that now heralded nothing but death and destruction.

The bombing campaign had escalated beyond strategic targets. What had started as air raids against factories, railways, and military depots had turned into an unrelenting assault on the nation itself. Amerathia’s goal was clear: to break Gran Colombia’s will to resist.

Bogotá, Medellín, Cali—none had been spared. Each day, new cities and towns were set ablaze. Hospitals, government offices, even marketplaces—all crumbled under the relentless barrage. The roads were clogged with refugees, families abandoning their homes in search of safety that no longer existed.

In the ruined capital, President Mariano Velásquez sat in his underground command center, his eyes hollow from exhaustion. Reports flooded in from across the nation—devastation, mass casualties, entire battalions wiped out before they could even mount a defense.

General Rodrigo Ibarra, his uniform stained with sweat and dust, slammed his fist onto the map table. "This isn’t war anymore, Mr. President. This is annihilation!"

Velásquez barely blinked. He already knew. He had seen the ruins of Bogotá firsthand. The Amerathians were no longer fighting an army; they were destroying a nation.

Each day, the Amerathian Air Force launched wave after wave of bombers. Their payloads were precise, deadly, and unstoppable.

Military bases that once housed Gran Colombia’s finest troops vanished in fireballs.

Supply lines critical to their resistance efforts were obliterated.

Communication networks fell silent as radio towers were reduced to twisted metal.

The once-proud Gran Colombian army was left without food, weapons, or even a way to coordinate their defenses.

"We cannot hold them off any longer," Salazar admitted grimly during one of their final war council meetings. "We no longer have an army."

But Velásquez refused to yield. "Then we fight as long as we can. If they come for Bogotá, we make them pay for every step they take."

But the truth was clear—Amerathia didn’t even need to invade. They had no reason to risk their soldiers in street battles when their bombers could destroy entire districts without resistance.

And so the bombing continued.

The streets of Bogotá, Medellín, and Cartagena became graveyards. Entire neighborhoods were flattened, the air filled with smoke and the cries of the wounded.

Hospitals overflowed, but soon, even the hospitals became targets. Doctors and nurses worked tirelessly, treating the injured by candlelight—until the next bomb strike wiped them out.

In the countryside, desperate farmers abandoned their fields. Supply routes had been cut off—hunger set in. Starving families looted what little food remained in the markets. Riots broke out in cities where the government could no longer maintain control.

Each night, survivors lay awake, listening for the dreaded sound of engines above. The bombers came like clockwork. Every day, a new part of their world was erased.

By the fourth week of bombardment, Gran Colombia’s government could barely function.

Velásquez no longer resided in the palace—what was left of it had been bombed into a skeletal ruin. The government operated from a bunker beneath the remnants of the military headquarters.

But even that was no longer safe.

January 9, 1887. The final blow came.

Amerathia unleashed its largest raid yet—100 bombers descended upon Bogotá, turning the city into an inferno.

The presidential bunker shook with each explosion. Velásquez and his remaining officials braced themselves as the walls cracked, dust falling from the ceiling.

Ibarra, gripping a rifle, turned to the president. "This is the end."

Salazar wiped the sweat from his face. "We can’t take another day of this. If we don’t surrender, there will be nothing left."

Velásquez closed his eyes. His heart was heavy, but he knew. He had sworn to fight until the last, but there was no one left to fight with.

He nodded slowly.

On the morning of January 10, 1887, President Velásquez’s official surrender was transmitted to the Amerathian embassy. The message was short, but it marked the end of the war.

On the morning of January 10, 1891, President Velásquez’s official surrender was transmitted to the Amerathian embassy. The message was short, but it marked the end of the war.

"The Republic of Gran Colombia concedes to the superior forces of Amerathia. We request immediate cessation of hostilities and terms for peace."

The war was over.

The skies above Bogotá fell silent for the first time in weeks. No more bombers. No more explosions. Only silence and the smoldering ruins of a once-proud nation.

Back in Washington, President Theodore Clay stood before Congress, his face unreadable as he delivered the final declaration.

"Amerathia has triumphed. The war is over."

The chamber erupted into applause. The world had witnessed the dawn of a new kind of warfare, and Amerathia had proven itself the sole master of the skies.

Clay turned to General Graves. "Prepare the occupation forces. Gran Colombia is ours now."

The Empire of Amerathia had risen. @@novelbin@@

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Matthew Hesh sat in his study, sipping a cup of coffee while reviewing the latest engineering reports from Hesh Industries. The war had kept him occupied, but now, with the fighting over, there was something else on his mind—the canal.

A sharp knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Amber entered, carrying a sealed envelope with the official presidential insignia on the front.

"It’s from the White House," she said, handing it to him.

Matthew’s stomach tightened as he carefully broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

Mr. Hesh,

The war is over.

Gran Colombia has officially surrendered to the Great Amerathian Republic. The government in Bogotá has fallen, and our occupation forces are already en route to ensure stability in the region.

As of today, January 11, 1891, the Panama Canal project will resume under full Amerathian authority. We will require your expertise in rebuilding and fortifying our new holdings. The war has proven the necessity of controlling this region indefinitely. Your presence is expected in Washington for a formal briefing.

Your nation thanks you for your service.

Respectfully,

Theodore Clay

President of the Great Amerathian Republic

Matthew exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair.

"It’s over," he muttered.