August 1939. Karelian Isthmus, East of Vyborg.
The vintage steam locomotive wheezed through the emerald pine forests like an asthmatic leviathan. With every strike of the rusted axles against the rails, a bone-jarring clack-clack echoed through the air.
The carriages were sweltering and overcrowded, thick with the stench of sweat, cheap tobacco, and the restless hormones of young men. This was no formal military transport, but a standard passenger train, a mobile sardine can packed with a chaotic mix of civilians, refugees, and emergency conscripts.
Walter Ilves sat by the window, pushing the soot-covered glass up a fraction with a look of faint annoyance. Outside, the Nordic summer was brief and brilliant. Sunlight filtered through the birch leaves, shimmering like scattered gold.
No one else could imagine that in a few short months, these lush forests would be buried under meters of snow, crushed by tens of thousands of tons of steel, and finally stained a grotesque dark red with fresh blood.
But Walter could.
As a transmigrator, he had lived in this world for five years. In his past life, he was the king of extreme sports, a man who danced on the edge of life and death, a lunatic who would plunge down the precipice of an Alpine avalanche just for the adrenaline rush. For the last five years, however, he had been the son of a prominent surgeon in Vyborg, living a comfortable, middle-class life of plenty.
His father wanted him to take up the scalpel; his mother hoped he would marry a woman of equal social standing. To Walter, the gala dinners and the polite, refined conversations were nothing more than fragile bubbles. He stood among the crowds, yet felt as though he were marooned on a deserted island. That marrow-deep loneliness made him shiver.
Until the clouds of war began to gather.
While everyone else was paralyzed by fear, Walter felt a long-lost sense of... peace. He realized that perhaps only in the coming killing fields, a place devoid of hypocritical etiquette, governed by the laws of survival he knew best, could he find his true self.
"Hey, pal. Borrow a light?"
A young man sitting opposite him leaned forward, clutching a crumpled, low-grade hand-rolled cigarette. He looked barely twenty, his face dotted with acne, his eyes reflecting the naive clarity and foolish excitement of someone who had never seen the world's ugliness.
Walter pulled an exquisite windproof lighter from his pocket, a trinket his father had brought back from Germany.
Snap.
The flame flickered to life.
In Walter's vision, the dancing flame suddenly froze. He could see every tremor of the blue heart of the fire and the instantaneous carbonization of the tobacco as it ignited.
This was his gift, the Eye of Death.
In this state, the world became hyper-clear, yet utterly cold. He could perceive the weaknesses and trajectories of all things, but he could no longer feel a spark of warmth.
"Thanks. I'm Pekka, from Imatra." The youth took a deep drag and pointed familiarly at the long canvas bag Walter had stowed on the luggage rack. "Judging by your gear, you're heading to the training camp too? What kind of piece are you carrying?"
"The tool I use to eat," Walter replied flatly, showing no interest in further conversation. His fingers lightly traced an oil can for cleaning rifles resting on his knee.
Inside the canvas bag was a Mosin-Nagant M28/30. It was the standard-issue rifle of the Finnish Civil Guard, but Walter's version had been "modded" by his own hand. The stock had been sanded down and refinished, and the trigger pull adjusted to be feather-light. Most importantly, he had spent a small fortune using his father's connections to secure a remarkably clear 3.5x magnification Zeiss scope.
In this era, the Finnish army was dirt poor. Ordinary soldiers were lucky to receive old-fashioned rifles without even a front sight protector.
"I heard this training is just a formality," Pekka prattled on, lowering his voice with a mysterious air. "The rumor is that as soon as the big shots in Helsinki sign a paper with Moscow and hand over a few islands, we'll be fine. A month at most, and we'll be back home helping with the wheat harvest."
A few other young men in the carriage laughed in agreement. Someone produced a deck of cards and started shouting for a game.
Walter turned away, watching the telegraph poles blur past the window. A flicker of sorrow crossed his eyes.
Home? He had no home. That clinic in Vyborg wasn't his home, and neither was this peaceful world. Moreover, if they knew that in three months, hundreds of thousands of Red Army soldiers would be surging across the border with two thousand tanks and enough artillery to level this forest, they wouldn't be laughing.
"Next stop, Lake Ladoga!" The conductor's shout interrupted Walter's thoughts.
The doors opened, and a gust of cool air scented with pine resin rushed in. A few men carrying hunting shotguns and wearing coarse cloth clothes climbed aboard. They appeared far more composed than the chattering city boys in the carriage; they possessed the distinct aura of those who made their living in the deep woods.
Walking at the rear was a short, unassuming man. He was barely over five feet tall, wearing a faded grey wool sweater, with a shy smile perpetually playing at the corners of his mouth.
Walter's indifferent gaze instantly sharpened.
It was the scent of a kindred spirit. Although the man looked honest and plain, like a Finnish farmer you might see anywhere, Walter noted his awkward gait and soft footsteps. This was a master.
Walter stood up, a rare smile appearing on his cold face.
"Simo!" he called out.
The short man looked up. Upon seeing Walter, his humble eyes lit up. He squeezed through the crowd and awkwardly extended a hand.
"Walter, I didn't expect it to be you." Simo Häyhä's voice was soft and mild. "I thought you went to university. Didn't your father want you to study medicine?"
"Scalpels are too boring, Simo. Only a gun makes a man feel alive."
Simo was a distant relative on Walter's father's side; by seniority, Simo was Walter's elder cousin. However, their families lived in completely different worlds and rarely interacted, meeting only at occasional family gatherings.
Walter gripped the calloused hand and pulled him into the seat beside him. "And you? Run out of deer to hunt at home?"
"No." Simo chuckled hoarsely, patting the rifle on his back. "But the mayor said the country needs men. So, I came. Besides... you once said that if I didn't come now, I might never get the chance to hunt again."
Pekka, sitting opposite them, sized up the short newcomer with curiosity. "Who's this? Your friend? Doesn't look like soldier material. Is he even tall enough to carry a rucksack?"
A few people nearby broke into good-natured laughter.
Walter did not laugh. He slowly turned his head, his grey eyes devoid of warmth.
"If I were you, I'd show him some respect," Walter said calmly. "Because when you're pissing your pants in terror on the battlefield, he's the one who will likely save your life."
Simo waved his hand dismissively, looking a bit flustered. "Don't exaggerate, Walter. I'm just a hunter."
A hunter is exactly what we need, Walter thought silently.
Because in this collapsing world, there were only hunters and prey. There were no other roles.
The train let out a long whistle and continued its journey eastward. Toward the meat grinder known as the Mannerheim Line.