Chapter 16 – World War II (Part II: 1943–1945)
The war had devoured millions by 1943, but only now did it begin to turn.
The early lightning strikes of Germany had slowed. Their pride cracked under the weight of Russian winter, Allied steel, and the awakening giant of America.
For Ivar, the second half of the storm was not easier. It was harder, heavier — the weight of survival pressing deeper with each battle. But he endured. He always endured.
---
Stalingrad – Winter 1943
Stalingrad was not a battle. It was a crucifixion.
The city was rubble by the time Ivar arrived. Buildings collapsed into twisted skeletons. Smoke hung over the Volga like a shroud. The ground itself was made of blood, snow, and ash.
He fought in the ruins, twin blades flashing in alleys where rifles jammed in the cold. He dragged Soviets from collapsed basements, cut Germans in hand-to-hand fights so brutal they left scars even on his immortal body.
Every block was a war. Every room, a grave.
He saw German soldiers freeze in the snow, their eyes glassy, their fingers black. He saw Russians starve, gnawing on scraps of leather to keep living. He saw civilians with nothing left to lose picking up rifles from the dead.
When Paulus finally surrendered in February 1943, when the German Sixth Army laid down arms, Ivar stood in the snow, blood steaming on his swords. He bowed his head.
"Thank you," he whispered. "For survival. For endurance. For letting me walk through this fire."
The gods were silent, but he felt them watching.
---
Italy – 1943
After North Africa fell, the Allies invaded Italy.
Ivar landed at Salerno, swords drawn as shells exploded along the beach. He cut through German resistance in narrow Italian streets, his sea-colored eyes reflecting flames. Civilians wept and kissed his hands, calling him a savior, though he gave the credit to the gods.
He marched through mountains, fought in Monte Cassino where bombs reduced monasteries to dust. He carried wounded soldiers down cliffs, his healing keeping him moving when others collapsed.
Italy fell piece by piece, but Ivar knew this was only the prelude. The real storm waited across the Channel.
---
The Eastern Front Rolls West
While the Allies pushed through Italy, Russia surged forward. Kursk — the largest tank battle in history — thundered with fire and steel.
Ivar fought there, slipping between armored beasts, his blades cutting infantry who fled when machines failed. The ground shook with endless explosions, smoke blotting out the sky. When the Germans broke and Russia rolled west, Ivar knew the tide had turned for good.
"Empires fall," he muttered as he marched with Soviet soldiers. "Always."
---
D-Day – June 6, 1944
The greatest invasion in history came at Normandy.
Ivar was there in the first waves at Omaha Beach. Bullets tore men apart before they reached the sand. Shells churned the sea into blood. The air was a storm of death.
He charged with them, swords drawn against machine guns. He cut barbed wire with steel, dragged soldiers through the surf, fought Germans in bunkers where grenades turned walls into fire. His body was riddled with wounds, but his healing factor carried him forward, closing cuts faster than death could claim him.
Men who survived that day swore they had seen an angel of war walking the beach, blades flashing in the smoke.
By nightfall, Normandy was held. Europe had a new crack in Germany's armor.
---
The Liberation of France
Through the summer and fall of 1944, the Allies pushed through France. Ivar fought in village after village, cutting down German patrols, shielding civilians, dragging wounded from burning houses. He stood in Paris when the city rose, when Resistance fighters battled in the streets and de Gaulle marched down the Champs-Élysées.
A French fighter kissed his cheek and whispered, "Merci, ange."
He only bowed his head. "Thank the gods."
---
The Ardennes – The Battle of the Bulge
In December 1944, Germany struck back with one last gamble. The Ardennes froze in winter as German tanks punched through Allied lines.
Ivar fought in the forests, his swords flashing against soldiers who thought the storm had passed. Snow turned red as he cut through ambushes, hauled men from burning tanks, fought until his arms shook.
The Allies held. Germany's last hope died in the snow.
---
The Fall of Berlin – 1945
By spring 1945, the war was ending. Russia closed from the east, the Allies from the west. Berlin was a graveyard waiting to happen.
Ivar marched with Soviet soldiers through ruined streets. Shells pounded the city into ash. He fought room to room, blades cutting where rifles faltered. He saw civilians weeping in basements, children clutching dolls as the world collapsed above them.
When Hitler fell in his bunker, when the swastika was torn down, Ivar stood in the rubble of the Reichstag, blades sheathed, eyes lifted to the gray sky.
He whispered thanks. Not for victory. For survival. For endurance. For carrying the memory of millions who never saw peace.
---
The Pacific – 1945
But the storm was not yet done.
He crossed to the Pacific, where America fought Japan island by island. He fought at Iwo Jima, blades flashing on volcanic rock where men fell faster than waves. He carried wounded Marines through caves choked with fire, his endurance unbroken.
Then came Hiroshima. Nagasaki.
Ivar stood miles from the blast, watching the sky turn to sun, watching fire consume a city in seconds. He felt the shockwave tear through him, wounds opening only to close again.
He had seen cities burn before. But never like this.
He bowed his head in silence. Not even he could thank the gods for such destruction. Only endure it. Only remember.
---
The End of the Storm
By August 1945, the war ended. The Axis lay shattered. The Allies stood bloodied but victorious.
Ivar walked through the ruins — Berlin, Tokyo, Warsaw, Hiroshima. He carried children from rubble. He buried soldiers whose names no one would remember. He whispered thanks with every breath, never cursing, never complaining, always surviving.
The gods watched. Silent. Proud.
---
Epilogue – 1945
When the war ended, Ivar stood on a hill outside Berlin, the ruins of empire at his feet. His black hair stirred in the wind, his sea-green eyes reflected the ashes.
"Another storm survived," he whispered.
He placed his hands on the hilts of his twin blades, bowed his head, and whispered thanks once more.
Because survival was prayer.
And he had never stopped praying.
---
Would you like me to continue with an interlude covering the Cold War (late 1940s–1960s: Korea, Vietnam's beginnings, nuclear fear) before diving into the next major war chapters, or jump straight into Chapter 17 – The Korean War?