The news of Antonov's death did not pass quietly. It tore through Stalingrad like fire through dry wood, igniting hearts and voices everywhere it touched. Christian had seen officers die before. He had seen cities fall silent under grief. But this, this was something else.
At first it was whispers, urgent and trembling. Then the whispers became cries. By evening, the city itself seemed to throb with sorrow. Men wept in the ruins, women clutched their children tighter and soldiers bared their heads to the frozen wind.
Antonov had been one of many who had fallen, yet the people clung to his death as though it were their own.
Christian hid himself among the skeletons of broken buildings, peering out from the shadows. And he saw it.
The funeral procession wound through the gutted streets, torchlight flickering against walls blackened by fire. The coffin was carried on strong shoulders, draped in crimson cloth, shimmering like a wound beneath the flames.
Priests walked at its side, their icons swaying, their voices hoarse as they mumbled prayers into the night. Women pressed forward, shrieking, some reaching out to touch the casket as though it could give them strength. Soldiers limped in their ragged uniforms, blood still fresh on their bandages, tears cutting streaks down soot-stained cheeks.
Christian had killed a man. But the people were burying more than a body, they were burying a man they genuinely loved.
The hymn that rose from the crowd was unlike anything he had ever heard. It was not music, it was the sound of grief being forged into something harder. Low voices swelled into a chorus that cracked the air like thunder. Christian felt his chest tighten as if the song itself reached into him, clawing at the walls around his heart.
Then the hymn stopped. Silence pressed heavy, so complete that Christian could hear his own blood in his ears.
And then it came, the cry.
"Za Rodinu! Za Stalina!"
"For the Motherland! For Stalin!"
It ripped from a thousand throats and echoed through the ruins like an avalanche. The very stones seemed to shake. Christian's breath caught in his throat. It wasn't the sound of an army. It wasn't even the sound of a people. It was the sound of a nation awakening in fury.
The next day, that fury broke.
Soviet soldiers hurled themselves at German lines with a ferocity that defied reason. Christian watched them charge through smoke and fire, bayonets flashing, eyes wild. Civilians dragged crates of ammunition through mortar fire, stumbling, falling, then crawling forward with bloodied hands.
He saw children carrying water to the trenches, their small frames staggering under buckets, their faces pale but unflinching. Tanks came forward even while burning, crews firing until the flames consumed them.
Antonov's death had not broken them. It had made them invincible. Christian pressed himself deeper into the rubble, heart pounding. This was not what he had expected. He had thought the death of one man would weaken them, unravel their strength. Instead, it had become the fuse for something monstrous. Their grief had turned into a weapon sharper than any blade.
And for the first time since the war began, he felt something colder than duty, darker than rage. He felt fear. His hands trembled as he whispered to himself, barely audible over the thunder of artillery. What have I done?
He had been sent to strike a blow against the enemy. But as he watched the Soviets fight with impossible fury, he realized the terrible truth: he had not weakened them. He had fed them. He had given them a martyr, a rallying cry, a reason to fight until the last man.
In the distance, the hymn began again, ragged but unstoppable. It rose above the battlefield like a curse. Christian closed his eyes, but the sound followed him, seeping into his bones. And no matter how he tried, he could not silence it.