Date: UC 1923, Late Spring
Location: Eastern Pacific Islands, Abandoned Combat Zone
Report Classification: Internal Recovery Log — Psychological Priority Alpha
For two months, there had been no word from the 300th Company. No reports. No signals. No survivors. Just silence.
The Empire couldn't ignore it anymore.
A rescue team was dispatched across the Pacific—one week on rough seas, unsure of what they'd find. They expected resistance. Maybe a remnant of enemy soldiers, maybe a signal flare, maybe... nothing.
What they didn't expect was death. So much of it.
Within minutes of landing, they stumbled upon corpses—hundreds of them. Some were mangled beyond recognition. Some lay in pieces beside rusted tank husks and the shattered remains of anti-aircraft guns. Dozens wore the colors of the foreign army. Ten bodies were from the lost company.
One was missing.
Hope flickered. They searched, hoping at least to bring home the final body.
What they found instead was a closed steel door, half-covered in vines, embedded into the hillside. A bunker.
Inside, Itsumi heard boots.
His heartbeat spiked. His mind screamed.They're back. More of them. More enemies.
Without thinking, he grabbed his rifle and pointed it toward the door. As soon as it creaked open, he fired. Round after round, screaming and trembling, he let out every ounce of fear and rage he had bottled up.
The rescuers scrambled for cover, stunned."What the hell—?" one soldier shouted."Wait! That voice—it's a child!"
They couldn't believe it. A child—alive, and shooting at them with the desperation of someone who had nothing left to lose.
When the rifle clicked empty, Itsumi didn't stop. He grabbed his machine gun and emptied its belt. When that was gone, he pulled out his pocket pistol and fired until it, too, clicked hollow. He wasn't thinking anymore—he was surviving.
When all his ammo ran out, he slid down against the wall, holding his combat knife with shaking hands. His breath was ragged. His eyes were bloodshot. His body was on fire from exhaustion.
Still, he waited.Ready to kill, or die trying.
The soldiers outside were frozen."This kid's not right," one muttered."He's been here… all this time," said another.
They radioed for medics—nurses trained not just in physical care, but in psychological handling.
Two women approached with caution."We'll take care of it," one said softly."Just be ready if he snaps," the other added.
The two nurses entered the dark bunker, slowly, carefully. What they saw broke their hearts.
A young boy with wild, matted hair.Filthy skin and hollow eyes.Holding a knife like it was his last hope.
He trembled, his breathing rapid, his body leaning back against the wall like a cornered animal. When he saw them, his eyes filled with confusion—not fear, not anger… just confusion.
They didn't speak loudly. They knelt, hands raised, speaking in soft, gentle tones."You're safe now.""We're here to help.""No more fighting, okay?"
It took time. Minutes that felt like hours. But slowly, the boy's hands loosened. The knife clattered to the floor. He fell forward, and one of the nurses caught him.
Itsumi didn't cry. He didn't speak.He just closed his eyes and let himself be carried.
For the first time in months… he let go.