I sat atop a battered, rusting T-72 tank—one of the many that Rinkusu had left behind after the war with the Doitsu Empire. Now, these old machines had become the mainstay of the Revolutionary Army of Doitsu. The tank rumbled along through the freezing skies. Snowflakes drifted slowly from above, gently blanketing the tree-lined path beneath us. The bitter cold seeped into my bones, a piercing chill that wrapped around my body like an invisible shroud.
Along with a few other soldiers, I was forced to ride on the tank's roof due to our severe shortage of transport vehicles. Suddenly, the sky was ripped open by a deafening roar. F-15 fighter jets belonging to the Doitsu Republic screamed overhead like vultures hunting for prey. One of our soldiers muttered in anguish, voice trembling with fury:
Doitsu Soldier: "Fucking bastards… You call yourselves a government? Taking foreign money… to slaughter your own people?"
Before we could react, bombs rained down. The tanks ahead of us were obliterated in an instant—twisted metal and flames where comrades once sat. Then came the hail of gunfire from above; the machine guns tore through the soldiers riding on the following vehicles, ripping through flesh and steel alike.
I leapt from the tank and scrambled into the surrounding birch forest, burying myself beneath the snow. The cold was savage—my whole body trembled with each heartbeat, teeth chattering not just from the freezing temperature, but from fear. More explosions echoed in the distance, and then, finally, silence... The two enemy aircraft had been shot down. We emerged cautiously from our hiding spots—what remained of us. Our force of 500 had been reduced to fewer than 100 survivors. Our armored column was nearly annihilated. Some sighed, others wept, and many were wounded—bleeding and broken after the brutal assault.
I gazed toward the smoke-filled horizon. There it was—Hanburuku, the city toward which the revolution marched. It was the strategic linchpin we needed to seize to cut off the enemy's northern weapons supply chain. Yet, multiple offensives had already failed. A gloomy heaviness settled over our weary group as we trudged forward. Those of us still capable of fighting had to reach the frontlines as soon as possible. If we didn't make it in time, many more lives would be lost.
My hands were still trembling—not just from cold, but from fear. Still, the convoy pressed on. We were marching not just for today, but for the future of our homeland. We could not afford to stop. Footsteps fell in rhythmic unison, one after another, driven by duty and desperation.
We passed through ruined villages. Some civilians were weeping. Others were burying their dead. The children were hungry, the people dressed in rags. Yet, even in their suffering, they gave what little they had—bottles of water, crusts of bread. It was a simple but profound gesture: the love between a people and their army. Some shouted words of encouragement: "Stay strong!", "Don't let anyone else die!", and "For the sake of our nation, you must all return alive!"
Then, quietly, a comrade beside me whispered. It was Mila—barely nineteen, with chestnut brown hair that cascaded like waves, and eyes the color of emeralds. She stood around 170 centimeters tall, her presence fragile yet unwavering.
Mila: "Hey, Miku… do you think we'll all die here? Or… do you think some of us will make it back?"
Her voice trembled with fear, and her eyes mirrored my own uncertainty. This was the most brutal battle the revolutionary forces had ever faced. The fear was real—gripping all of us like a vise. None of us knew if we would live to see tomorrow. My own voice shook as I answered, cold and terrified. I could barely form the words.
Miku: "M-maybe… maybe we can still go home…"
I tried not to cry. I was scared—scared of dying, scared of never seeing home again. But we were all just human. Every soldier here felt fear and pain. Still, we had no choice. The fate of our country lay in our hands. We had to keep going. We couldn't stop—not for fear, not for grief, not for anything. That was the one thought echoing in all our minds.
So I fell silent. Words wouldn't help anymore. All we could do was keep marching.
As we neared the outskirts of the city, smoke billowed from burning buildings. Windows were shattered, the streets filled with wreckage. Revolutionary troops lay wounded and dead. The field hospitals were overwhelmed, corpses lined the floors.
Yet still, there was no time to rest. I and a few surviving comrades were ordered into the city—to search for wounded and bring back anyone we could save...