Martin… Martin… MARTIN!!!" Ferry's voice cut through the haze. "Come on! WAKE UP! It's not safe here!"
I forced my eyes open. My head was bleeding, and my ankle felt broken. Everything around me was burning—the trucks, the trees. The last thing I remembered was the truck in front of us blowing apart.
"Valkin! Grab Martin and move him to that house! HURRY!" Ferry shouted.
Through the blur, I saw Valkin and Alfred haul me into the basement of a half-burnt house. They dropped me down, and the world went dark again.
When I woke up, Ferry and Barnett were sitting beside me, leaning over a burned map with markers in their hands. I tried to sit up but felt dizzy, so I collapsed back. They dropped what they were doing and stopped me.
"Hey, don't move. Rest a bit," Ferry said.
"What… happened?" I forced the words out.
"A bomber came out of nowhere and wiped us out. The other officers are all dead. It's a miracle we're alive," he muttered, his jaw tight.
"Are you okay?" I asked him.
"Yeah. Just a shard of glass in my thigh."
"And you, Barnett?"
"Just a few cuts on the arm. Nothing serious."
"What about Valkin and Alfred?"
"They're outside, scavenging for food and weapons."
Not long after, Valkin and Alfred returned. They dropped their haul on the floor—guns, ammo, and a bit of food.
"SMG for each of us, two pistols, and a bolt rifle," Alfred reported. "Ten mags for the SMGs, eleven bullets for the pistols, and seven for the rifle." He tossed the weapons down like it was nothing.
"In this bag: four sandwiches, three apples, and a few bottles of water," Valkin added. "That's all we could salvage. The rest is ashes."
"Good work," Ferry nodded. "Rest up. We'll figure out the next step soon."
As I lay back, closing my eyes, sleep refused to come. Like always, the second my eyes shut, I saw my father. His face, his words—haunting.
"Well, Martin… we faced death before we even reached the Eastern Command HQ," Ferry muttered beside me.
"Yeah," I whispered. "If this were just the start, the war would be much worse."
"The best thing we can do now is rest. Your head's injured. Sleep. Tomorrow, we move on foot," Ferry said firmly, then rolled over and went quiet.
The war… it really was going to be hell. For fifteen-year-olds like us, this attack was already enough to break our will. But something—something deeper kept us holding on.
When I woke again, morning light seeped faintly through cracks in the basement door. Everyone but Alfred was awake. My body still ached, but I felt stronger. I swallowed the pills Barnett handed me, and soon we were gathered for a light breakfast. Dry bread. Half an apple each. Water sipped sparingly.
Afterwards, Ferry unrolled the burnt, torn map across the floor. "We were hit two hours out from the academy. The last sign I remember showed Egnisk—border village—two-fifty kilometers away."
"That means we're here." Barnett circled a spot with her marker.
"Two hundred and thirty-nine kilometers left." Ferry nodded grimly. "Main road's suicide. Drones will see us. Northern forest line is worse—too open to enemy patrols."
I leaned in and tapped the southern edge of the map. "Here. We follow the southern forest line. There's a canal running through it. Dense trees overhead, fresh water if we're lucky. The canopy should even shield us from thermals."
Silence. Then Ferry gave a slow nod. "Not bad. Alright, that's our route." He folded the map. He paused, scanning our faces. "Martin and I will check the upper floor. The rest of you search the ground floor."
We packed our things, each of us slinging an SMG over our shoulder, and left the basement. The air upstairs was heavy, stale—as if the house itself had been holding its breath.
Ferry and I stepped into the first room. A single chair sat beside the window, facing the charred horizon. A bed lay untouched on the right, and a study table sagged under scattered papers. The silence pressed on us as we searched.
"The sky… It's sad… it is crying," Ferry read aloud from a crumpled note on the desk. His voice was low, almost reverent. He let the paper fall back down. "Whoever lived here wrote this before everything burned. You can feel their misery in just those words."
His shoulders slumped, and for a moment, the weight of war pushed him down. I felt it too. Someone's life had ended here—quiet, forgotten, and we were trespassing through the ashes of their sorrow.
We searched the room for a while longer, but found nothing useful.
"Did you guys find anything? Barnett, Valkin, Alfred?" Ferry called down the stairs. His voice carried too loudly through the empty house.
I leaned close and whispered sharply, "Don't shout. The enemy might still be nearby."
He gave me a tired smile. "We're in Arkanian territory, Martin. Relax."
"Yesterday was Arkanian territory too," I whispered back. The memory of the bomber still burned behind my eyes.
Ferry's face darkened, and he nodded. "Alright. No more shouting."
When we regrouped downstairs, the others laid out their findings: a kitchen knife and a sack of potatoes.
"Well…" Alfred smirked, spinning the knife between his fingers. "Looks like we've got ourselves a soldier's kitchen."
For a brief second, the tension cracked, and a faint laugh slipped from us. But the laughter died quickly, swallowed by the silence of the house—reminding us that we weren't raiding a pantry. We were sifting through the remains of someone else's life.
We left the house. For the first time since that strike, sunlight touched my face. It should have felt warm, hopeful—but all I saw around me was ruin. Most of the houses had been reduced to ashes, skeletons of what they once were. Only the one we'd sheltered in had survived, standing a little apart from the rest.
We walked toward the wreckage of our convoy, hoping for anything that could keep us alive. I spotted a box glinting faintly under the debris. I picked it up and opened it—inside were small containers.
"Hey, guys, check this out," I called, and they gathered around. "Looks like… lunchboxes." I handed one to Ferry.
His eyes widened a little. "Oh, I know these. They're field rations.
You just shake them, and the chemical inside heats the food—no fire needed. Perfect for war.
Valkin frowned. "Shake it and it gets hot? How does that even work?"
Alfred shrugged. "Some chemical reaction. Don't ask me the name—I don't remember. But it works."
"Whatever it is, it means food." Ferry tucked the box carefully into his bag. "Martin, you're injured. The rest of you are already carrying enough. I'll keep these safe."
"There's no need to explain yourself," I said quietly, and we moved on.
We entered the southern forest line, following the canal. It still had water in it—calm, unmoving. Valkin bent down to fill his bottle, but Barnett caught his arm.
"Don't," she said firmly. "My father taught me—still water breeds disease. Flowing water is safe. This isn't."
Valkin nodded, embarrassed, and we pressed on.
We walked for hours. Birds flitted between branches, and squirrels darted across tree trunks. The forest rustled and chirped with life. It was strange—beautiful, almost peaceful. A rare moment of calm in the middle of hell. By the time the sun began to sink, painting the sky orange, Ferry told us to stop.
"Better to rest here and move tomorrow," he said.
We sat down to eat. I had an idea. "We've got fifteen boxes. If we use two at a time, we'll stretch them longer."
Barnett and I opened two. We shook them, and within a minute, steam rose from the seams. Alfred had been right—the food was warm. I handed one to Valkin, who immediately shoveled a mouthful in.
"It's hot!" he shouted, fanning his tongue.
"No shit, Sherlock. I thought it was cold," Alfred deadpanned, snatching the box back. Barnett burst out laughing, and so did I. Even Valkin cracked a small smile. For a moment, the weight on our shoulders lightened.
We finished dinner and settled in, talking quietly. But Ferry noticed my silence.
"Martin, you're tense. More than usual. What's wrong?"
Barnett leaned in, too. "Yeah. You've been quiet all evening."
I hesitated. "Something's bugging me."
"What is it?" Ferry asked, all seriousness now.
"That bomber… it was Hectagon, right? So the latest generation. Which means thermal imaging, satellite guidance, and precision strikes. If they wanted us dead, they could have done it in one pass. But they didn't. They carpet-bombed the road ahead, destroyed the first truck, but ours never took a direct hit. When it circled back, we were wide open. I know it saw us go into that house, but it didn't fire again. And here's the strangest thing—none of the other batches before us were attacked like this. Out of all the cadets sent in the past year… we're the first ones to face something like this."
Alfred narrowed his eyes. "So what are you saying?"
"I don't know." I shook my head. "But I'm sure of one thing: the attack wasn't meant to kill us."
Barnett frowned. "If not to kill us… Then why? We're not special. We're just cadets."
No one had an answer. We sat there in silence, the forest around us too calm, too alive, for the thoughts gnawing at our minds.
"Rest," Ferry said at last. "Whatever the reason, we'll think about it tomorrow. Tonight, we need strength."
We lay down, but sleep didn't come easily. The same questions echoed in my head—why us? Why that attack? And most of all, why did they spare us?
The next morning, we ate the sandwiches, packed our things, and resumed the march. According to Barnett's estimate, at our current pace, it would take us three more days to reach Egnisk.
"By tomorrow, we'll run out of water," I said, adjusting my bag. "Either we find a new source or ration what little we have left."
"Barnett." Ferry handed her the map. "See if there's a canal or lake nearby."
Barnett unfolded it, tracing her finger across the creased lines. "There's a canal further south. But if we head there, we'll be half a day late to Egnisk."
I leaned over and took the map. Barnett shot me an annoyed look. "You don't trust my judgment?"
"No," I said quickly, shaking my head. "I'm not doubting you. But if I remember right, this canal merges with a lake further east. If we cut across, we might hit fresh water without losing time."
Her eyes widened slightly. "Oh… I didn't notice that."
"Then it's settled," Ferry said, folding the map back into his bag. We continued onward.
After two hours of walking, we reached the place where the canal and lake met. The water glimmered between the trees, a small mercy in this war-torn land. But before we could rush in, I froze.
"Wait. Everyone, down." I hissed, crouching behind a bush.
An old man shuffled into view, carrying a bucket. A single sheep followed at his side. His steps were heavy, tired, as if the earth itself weighed him down.
We rose cautiously and stepped out. The sight of our rifles made him stumble back, fear written on his face.
"Sir, don't be afraid," Ferry said, raising his hands slightly. "We're Arkanian. We won't hurt you."
But the old man only gripped the bucket tighter, eyes darting like a cornered animal.
I stepped forward slowly, lowering my gun. "We're not here to steal your sheep or anything else. We're heading to Egnisk. We just need to fill our bottles."
The man studied me, then our group. After a long silence, his shoulders slumped. "…Alright."
Valkin and Alfred hurried forward, filling the bottles. The old man simply watched, his expression a mixture of weariness and suspicion. When we were ready to leave, his voice stopped us.
"Come with me," he said hoarsely. "I'll give you something to eat."
We exchanged uncertain looks, but followed him. His house was a kilometer away, a crumbling shell of stone and wood that looked ready to collapse. A weak cow and two more sheep stood tied outside, ribs showing beneath their hides.
Inside, he set apples and stale bread before us. His hands trembled as he poured milk into a single clay cup. We hesitated—he had almost nothing left. But refusing him felt crueler than accepting, so we ate quietly. The five of us shared half the milk, then slid the rest back to him.
As we finished, he asked softly, "What are children like you doing out here?"
We told him the truth—about the bombing, about losing our convoy, about walking to Egnisk on foot. His face sagged.
"…I'm sorry for your loss," he said. His voice cracked. "When I first saw you, I was afraid. Because the last Arkanians who came here… they took my grandson. And the little food and animals I had."
His words were like a blade. We hadn't touched a thing, yet guilt flooded us all the same. The Crescent Army—the very army we now wore the badge of—had broken this man's world.
"You kids have suffered," he murmured. "Stay the night. Rest. At least here, it's quiet."
Ferry shook his head gently. "No, sir. We've already burdened you enough. Egnisk isn't far, and we have food. Your kindness is more than enough."
The old man's eyes glistened as he reached under the table and pulled out a battered walkie-talkie. "A soldier left this here once. Said he'd come back for it, but never did. Take it. Might save your lives."
We tried to refuse, but he pressed it into Ferry's hands. His grip was firmer than we expected from someone so frail.
As thanks, we left one of our precious heated lunchboxes on his table. "For you," I said. "It's not much… but it'll keep you warm."
The old man's lips trembled, but he said nothing.
When we left, none of us spoke for a long time. The guilt clung to us heavier than our rifles. He had already suffered more than any man his age should, and yet war still found ways to take more from him.
We returned to the canal, refilled, and turned east again. The road to Egnisk stretched ahead—but behind us, we carried the weight of the old man's sorrow.
At noon, we reached a railway junction buried in the forest, about ninety-five kilometers from Egnisk. The tracks cut across the trees like a scar, mostly quiet and forgotten. But then we heard the sound of engines.
We slowed down and crouched behind a tree line, waiting.
A convoy appeared on the tracks, and it didn't take long for us to realize who they were. This wasn't a regular supply line. The banners, the formation, and the vehicles all gave it away.
The Knights of Zerathia.
Even the name was heavy. They weren't just soldiers; they were known across the world as the toughest, most feared special unit. People said no one who fought them ever came back the same.
I counted as they passed: three light anti-tank vehicles, a cargo truck, two armoured carriers, and a jeep. Too much firepower to be this deep in Arkanian territory. That alone made it strange.
We thought we were in the clear as the main group moved on, but then the jeep stopped. The engines were still running. They were staying behind.
We pulled back a hundred meters into the woods. None of us spoke until we were sure they couldn't see us.
"Why here?" Barnett finally whispered.
No one had an answer. The only thing we knew was simple: we couldn't afford to be noticed.
After some time, the jeep finally rolled forward. We waited until the sound of its engine faded, then resumed our march, cautious with every step.
"What do we do?" Valkin whispered, nervously adjusting the strap of his rifle. "We're no match for them. Not even by some miracle."
We were all thinking the same thing. My palms were sweating. My throat was dry. But then—an idea clicked in my head.
"We follow them," I said. "Not recklessly, but carefully. We need to know if they're stopping nearby or pushing deeper into our land. If they reach the Command HQ from the rear, the whole eastern front collapses. That's checkmate for Arkania."
The others hesitated, but slowly nodded. Ferry exhaled, long and heavy, then gave his approval.
"Alright," he said. "We take the risk."
We moved through the forest, low and silent, using the trees as cover. Every crack of a twig felt like a gunshot. Five minutes later, we saw them again. The convoy had stopped completely. They weren't passing through—they were positioning.
We fell back two hundred meters and huddled together. My mind was racing, trying to stitch the pieces into a plan. Then it hit me.
"They're setting up for an ambush," I said, pointing at the map Ferry handed over. "Four hundred meters south is a small railway station. It should have a signal tower. Ferry, Valkin—you two head there. Try to contact the Air Force and share our coordinates. Use the frequency from your comms."
I tapped the map. "Barnett, Alfred, and I will stay close. Barnett, you'll mark coordinates for the strike. I'll cover with the sniper. Alfred, you'll cover Barnett in close range. We'll take out their patrols quietly."
Ferry frowned. "Risky as hell."
"Riskier to do nothing," I shot back. "If they move, the HQ is gone. And so is Arkania."
Silence. Then Ferry straightened. "As a leader, I approve. We move."
Valkin still looked pale. "We're rushing this. Shouldn't we wait? Observe?"
"Valkin." I met his eyes. "I get it—you're scared. So am I. But hesitation will kill us faster. They're the Zerathian Knights. If we wait, we're already dead."
That silenced him. We packed fast, checked our ammo, and moved.
At a hundred meters, I dropped prone, sniper ready. Alfred crept twenty meters ahead, staying low. Barnett crawled toward the edge of the convoy, blending with the shadows.
"Barnett, two patrols on your 2 o'clock," I whispered into the comm. "Hold."
She froze, pressed flat to the ground until the patrol passed, then slid closer.
"This is Ferry," came the crackle in my earpiece. "We've found the tower—picking up signals now. Stand by."
Static hissed, then a sharp, commanding voice broke through.
"This is Eagle Wing-08. Repeat—Eagle Wing-08. Identify yourselves."
Ferry's voice answered, steady but fast. "This is Private Ferry Ferling of the Crescent Army. We're survivors from Convoy Seven. We were bombed en route to HQ."
"Convoy Seven…" The pilot's voice stiffened. "Copy that. We were dispatched to search for you. Go ahead with your coordinates."
"Sir, new intel." Ferry hesitated, then continued. "We've spotted a Zerathian Knight convoy: three light anti-tank vehicles, a cargo truck, two armored carriers, and a jeep. They're deep in our territory. We request an immediate airstrike. Our scout, Barnett Alexim, will provide coordinates."
Silence. Then the pilot again. "Understood. Send the marks. We are circling 1400 meters from your position."
"Barnett," I said into the comm, "give them the data and get out. Fast."
"I'm seventy meters away," she whispered back.
"That's too close. As soon as you finish, run. Alfred and I will clear the patrols. Go."
Her voice steadied. "Coordinates: AZ-07QK-412389-781204 • 257° • 1200m • TOT 04:10 UTC-AZ."
She whispered them with precision, then bolted back toward us. The patrol turned, spotted movement, and shouted.
I fired. The crack of my rifle echoed like thunder. The first soldier dropped. Alfred opened up with his SMG, cutting down another two before they could react. The Knights panicked, but the delay was enough—Barnett was already clear.
"Targets engaged, pulling back!" I shouted. I had seven bullets left—no room for mistakes. One, two, three—each shot a kill. My fingers moved on instinct, my mind blank but sharp. Alfred covered me as I scrambled to my feet.
Then the comm exploded.
"All Alpha, target locked. Pull out! I repeat—fall back immediately!"
We sprinted through the trees. MG fire shredded the branches behind us, bullets snapping through leaves. My lungs burned, my legs screamed, but I didn't stop.
"PACKAGE RELEASED!" the pilot roared.
The ground shook. A deafening roar swallowed the world. The night sky turned white, then orange. Fire consumed everything—the vehicles, the Knights, the forest floor itself. The shockwave nearly knocked us off our feet.
For a second, we just stared. We had done it.
"YEAH!" we screamed in unison, adrenaline pouring out of us like fire.
"Bullseye!" Eagle Wing laughed over the radio. "Hell of a job, privates. HQ has been informed. Extraction inbound—ETA one hour. Sit tight."
Ferry and Valkin came running from the tower. We embraced, laughed, and shouted victory until our throats ached. For the first time since the academy, we felt like real soldiers.
We checked the wreckage. No survivors. Just fire, smoke, and silence. A graveyard of Zerathia's most feared.
An hour later, the thundering blades of a helicopter cut through the smoke-filled sky. We ran toward it, waving. Our salvation had arrived.
As the bird lifted us off the ground, the fire below shrank, but the weight in my chest didn't. This was just one victory. Just one fight.
The real war lay ahead.
But for now, we knew one thing for certain—we weren't just kids anymore. We were Crescent soldiers. And we had slain the Knights of Zerathia.