The earth trembled before the roar of the Soviet guns. It began not as a barrage but as a storm, a grinding percussion that seemed to tear open the very air. Christian, crouched behind the frozen carcass of a shattered tank, felt the ground shift beneath him as though the world itself had turned hostile. His ears rang, his teeth ached, and every breath carried the grit of pulverized stone.
The Germans were reeling. The Wehrmacht machine; so disciplined, so proud, so certain of itself, was coming apart seam by seam. Orders barked by sergeants dissolved into confusion as lines broke under the weight of men who came at them not as soldiers but as a flood, howling, relentless, driven by grief.
The Soviets came with fire in their throats, with Antonov's death still bleeding in their hearts. Christian had seen death worshipped before, had seen men rally under flags and speeches. But this… this was different. It was as though the entire Red Army had been bound by some unspoken oath, one forged not by command but by vengeance.
He saw it in their eyes as they charged across the ruins; not fear, not duty, but something primal, sacred. They bore Antonov's name like a hymn. And they hurled themselves into the German trenches with bayonets flashing, with grenades clutched like offerings, with their own bodies made into weapons.
"Zurück! Zurück!" an officer shouted, his voice cracking. Christian turned and saw a captain dragged down by the tide, his pistol firing into the mob until hands seized him, until his cry was cut short.
The German defenses faltered. Machine guns stuttered and fell silent as crews were overrun. Mortar crews vanished into smoke. In one trench, Christian saw men throwing down rifles, clawing at the frozen earth as if they could dig their way back to Germany with their bare hands.
The Red tide did not stop. Christian's mind swam. This was not war as he had known it. This was something elemental, raw, war transformed into ritual revenge. He could not shake the image of the mourning circle he had seen, the weeping soldiers who had treated Antonov not as a fallen officer but as a saint. That grief had become a weapon, sharper than any blade.
He moved through the chaos, ducking between broken walls, crawling over corpses, hearing voices both German and Russian torn away mid-scream. A soldier beside him dropped, his chest split open, and Christian stumbled onward, tasting bile.
He had always believed in control. Missions had goals, steps, exits. But here, there was no plan. Only survival. The Soviets were not merely counterattacking, they were exorcising something, burning it out with blood.
"Raus! Raus!" a lieutenant cried, waving men back, but his words drowned under the thunder of Katyusha rockets streaking overhead, their shrieks carving terror into the night. The sky lit in sheets of fire. German vehicles erupted one after another, steel twisting, flames clawing upward.
Christian fell against a wall, clutching his rifle though he barely remembered raising it. His chest heaved. Around him, men stumbled like ghosts, some firing wildly, others retreating with empty eyes.
The Red Army pressed closer. He saw faces through the smoke, young, old, scarred, burning with that same terrifying unity. He saw one man screaming Antonov's name as he plunged a bayonet into a German's throat. He saw another fall, torn apart, only for two more to rise behind him, undeterred.
It struck Christian with brutal clarity: Antonov had not died. His body was gone, but his spirit marched with every man, woman, and boy who now surged against the German line. Christian had killed one man. But in doing so, he had unleashed an army possessed.
The retreat became a rout. German squads broke, scattered, dissolved into the snow as the Soviets claimed street after street, trench after trench. Christian stumbled with them, every step heavier, every breath ragged. His vision blurred with smoke and tears, but the thought would not leave him, that he had lit this fire with his own hands, that his dagger had cut the cord holding back the storm.
And for the first time, beneath the roar of battle, a deeper question gnawed at him. Was this what victory looked like? Or had he only become the instrument of another man's vengeance, another tyrant's shadow?
The Red tide swallowed the city, and Christian, swallowed with it, staggered into the night.