J_Win

  He hath utterly destroyed them, he hath delivered them to the sughter. Their sin shall also be cast out, and their stink shall come up out of their carcasses, and the mountains shall be melted with their blood.

  —ISAIAH 34:2–3 (KING JAMES VERSION)

  Location: ? Republic of Libérédóry – Northern Coastal City?

  Date: ? 2001 – June 04 – 11:00 p.m. ?

  The night was a funeral pyre. Fmes cwed at the darkened heavens, their light staining the clouds with an ominous crimson. A coastal city, once alive with the hum of life, now y broken, its streets choked with the debris of its own annihition. Buildings groaned as they crumbled, their colpse a mournful dirge swallowed by the insatiable hunger of war. The sea’s calming presence was a cruel reminder of peace—long gone. Now, it carried the stench of blood, charred flesh, and salt—a bitter cocktail of decay.

  The narrow streets twisted into grotesque murals of death. Corpses, twisted and fractured, scattered across the streets like broken marionettes. Limbs sprawled at unnatural angles, faces frozen in expressions of terror, despair, and fury. The remnants of humanity were unrecognizable, reduced to raw, primal forms by the ferocity of the skirmishes.

  Through the wreckage, a solitary figure strode. Its bck jacket seemed to drink shadows themselves, the hood drawn low, masking the face beneath. The figure sauntered forth, dark brown boots crunching over the fragments of shattered lives.

  Its stride never faltered, even as it cast a gnce at the madder red fmes consuming the remnants of the structures.

  Buildings—symbols of ambition and progress—stood as charred husks, their metal frames warped and gnarled, stretching toward the sky like skeletal hands in silent supplication. Smoke climbed into the heavens, blotting out the stars, as if to hide this forsaken pce from the divine gaze above.

  Everything reduced to nothing—this is war.

  The figure stopped in its tracks, coming to the base of a grotesque mound—a hill of bodies. Soldiers in dark blue uniforms, barely more than boys, their faces hidden beneath metal helmets that offered no protection from the brutality of the war. Their armors glistened beneath the glow of the fire, cracked, dented, and meaningless in death. Their flesh mangled beyond repair.

  A quiet scoff escaped the figure. It began to climb the mound, each step accompanied by the sickening squelch of flesh giving way. The ascent was neither hurried nor reverent. It was a climb of indifference, as if the lives extinguished there were no more significant than the ashes swirling in the air.

  From its new vantage point, it gazed over the scene. The hood concealed its features, save for the faint glow of crimson eyes that pierced the darkness. It stood atop the fallen like a king surveying its kingdom—the hill of corpses its throne. The scene was a vision ripped from Revetion—where cities burned and kingdoms crumbled under the wrath of God. Yet, there was no witness, no chorus of angels or cries of demons. Only silence answered the devastation.

  Static.

  “Come in. Can you hear me?”

  The figure reached up and pulled back its hood, revealing the face of a young man, no older than twenty. His long, messy crimson hair was tied back, though unruly sidelocks framed the right side of his face, giving him an asymmetrical, almost disheveled appearance. His crimson eyes, accentuated by long, bck shes, glowed faintly—like embers that had long since lost their fme—dead, yet alive.

  He reached into his jacket and pulled out a handheld radio. Pressing the PTT button, his reply was low and devoid of warmth, much like his eyes. “Loud and clear,” he said, his voice an unfeeling monotone, calm as the sea that bore witness to the destruction.

  “Provide SITREP, over,” crackled the voice from the radio, muffled by static.

  “Imperial forces breached their eastern fnk. United Alliance soldiers were overrun, with no friendly forces remaining in site upon my arrival. I have neutralized the Imperial troops occupying this position. Proceeding south now to support the remaining troops,” he answered conically, his tone never wavering, his expression bnk.

  “As always, you’re quick. The Empire is still pushing towards the northern coast from the south. Aid the remaining United Alliance forces until the rescue operation is complete.”

  Orders received. No acknowledgment needed. He moved without hesitation, but before he could release the button, the voice on the other side added softly:

  “You can’t live like that. No one could.”

  The young man heaved a sigh, a sound between frustration and resignation. It was a statement he’d heard countless times, one that fell upon his ears like a dull bde.

  Years had passed since he had lost everything—his family, his homend, even his name. The memories were gone, swept away by the endless tides of harrowing experiences. All that remained was the shell of a man, driven by one desperate desire: to find courage in the face of life and death. It was the only thing he had left, the only thing he could cling to in a world that had forsaken him.

  “I can,” he replied ftly, though there was firmness in his voice this time, a resolve that belied his detached demeanor.

  “You’re seeking courage, aren’t you? But will war really show you what you need? Always facing death, numbing your fear of it… Is that courage…?” The voice over the radio was heavy, burdened with an anxious tenderness, as if pleading to a wayward child lost in the dark.

  “Maybe,” he replied, his tone now veiled in ambiguity, as though uncertain whether the question—or the answer—held any meaning at all. He abruptly released the PTT button before the man could reply.

  A person is built from three things; their homend—pce of birth, their blood—family, and their name—identity. These are the foundations of their being. These are the anchors that tether them to the world, the roots that allow them to stand firm.

  However, the young man had none of those. He has nothing. Even if he did have something, he had long forgotten. The only thing pushing him forward now is to find courage to face life and death, and he thinks it’s fine… But it’s not.

  For a man is like a tree—for if they have no roots, they will fall.

  “I need to move,” he whispered to himself, tightly gripping the bck handkerchief wrapped around his neck like a scarf.

  But there was no reply, for there was no one there to hear his determined soliloquy.

  J_Win