War is, at its core, a disaster wrought by human hands. A disaster that could be avoided, yet never is. Pride, hatred, greed—these are the chains that drag civilizations into the abyss over and over again.
The year is 2054, and once more, Europe drowns in blood and fire. The Eastern Front is alight with war, the Balkans fractured into countless battlefields. Extremist groups rise from the shadows, their ranks swelling as governments crumble under the weight of their own failures. Some nations cling desperately to power, while others are ground to dust beneath the treads of armored divisions.
The war lasted for four years, a storm of destruction with no end in sight. Then, in early 2058, the guns finally fell silent. Not because peace had prevailed, but because exhaustion had consumed all sides. The battlefields grew still, yet the aftermath lingered in every ruined street and every shattered soul.
Soldiers still marched through the cities, their presence a grim reminder that this silence was not peace. Beggars, once ordinary citizens, huddled on sidewalks with hollow eyes that pleaded for mercy. Criminals thrived in the chaos, preying on the weak, while war criminals vanished among the masses, hiding from justice.
And me? I'm just another survivor, picking up the pieces, trying to live.
⟞⟞──✦──⟝⟝
The bell above the door gave a dull chime as I stepped into the convenience store. Harsh fluorescent lights washed over shelves lined with neatly stacked goods, one of the few remaining fragments of normal life in this broken city.
It has been three months since the war ended, yet the air still reeks of burned metal and desperation. The dull ache in my phantom arm reminds me that no amount of time will erase what happened. My right arm is gone, replaced by cold steel. My left eye is nothing more than an empty socket, a wound I no longer bother hiding.
I gathered a few cans of food and some instant coffee before placing them on the counter. The young cashier hesitated as she scanned the items, her eyes darting between me and the prosthetic. She wanted to say something but lacked the courage. Fear, curiosity, unease—it was all written across her face.
"Just say it," I muttered. "This is still a free country. At least for now."
She flinches, caught off guard by my bluntness. Then, after a moment, she gathers the courage to speak.
"Are you a veteran?"
The question hangs between us, heavy and expected. I follow her gaze. She's staring at my prosthetic. I nod, slow and deliberate.
"Yeah. I fought in that cursed war."
She looks away, biting her lip. "I'm sorry for your loss."
"No." My voice is sharp, cutting through the stale air. "Don't pity me. Don't insult my comrades who died screaming in the trenches by reducing them to an apology. If you want to honor them, remember them. But don't pity us."
She stiffens, her fingers tightening around the register. "I… I didn't mean—"
"I know," I cut in, brushing a hand through my unkempt hair. "Forget it."
For a brief while, silence lingered between us, heavy but not uncomfortable. When she finally spoke again, her tone had softened, carrying a gentleness that hadn't been there before
"My father… He used to own this store. Before he passed, he told me he wanted to give veterans a fifty percent discount. You're the first one to come here since the war ended."
For a second, her words caught me off guard. Of all the things I expected, that was not one of them.
"Your father sounds like a good man."
Her lips curved faintly, but the expression carried more sorrow than warmth. "He was. He wasn't a soldier, though he wanted to be. A medical condition kept him out of the army. In the end, he died in an accident. A drunk soldier celebrating the end of the war crashed into his car."
The words hit like grit against old wounds. Memories of men drowning their guilt in liquor, of reckless bastards walking away untouched, clawed back to the surface. I could already taste the bitterness rising, but before I could ask more, she pressed on.
"I heard the soldier got what he deserved."
I nodded slowly in understanding, knowing there was nothing more to ask, and that pressing further would only reopen wounds best left closed.
For a moment, the air between us felt heavier, silence stretching just enough to sting before she finally moved on. Without another word, she reached under the counter and handed me a form—name, age, years of service. I filled it out without hesitation. When she read it, her eyes widened slightly.
"7th Armored Cavalry Division…"
A corner of my mouth tugged upward as I replied, "Surprised?"
"No, it's just… my father used to talk about the 7th. Said they were the ones who held the eastern flank during the last battle."
"We did. And we paid for it."
She nods solemnly, then rings up my total. True to her word, I only pay half price.
"Thank you for your service, sir."
"Don't call me that," I say with a tired chuckle. "I'm just a washed-up old soldier."
She smiles, and for a moment, the world feels a little less heavy.
---
I step outside, the flimsy paper bag of groceries clutched in my good hand. The night air is crisp, carrying the faint, almost nostalgic scent of rain, damp earth, and distant decay. The streets are eerily quiet—too quiet. The city is holding its breath, just like I am.
Then it happens.
A sudden heat explodes in my chest. Not warmth—this is not the fleeting comfort of human connection. This is a white-hot fire, a sudden, searing pain that spreads through my veins like molten lead, scorching every nerve ending. My breath catches, not in a gasp, but in a strangled, desperate rattle. My vision blurs, fracturing into a kaleidoscope of impossible shapes. My knees buckle, not from exhaustion, but from an internal force, the grocery bag slipping from my prosthetic grip and clattering onto the cracked pavement.
A pulse—deafening, all-consuming, a thunderclap inside my own skull. A force slams into me from within, rattling my very bones as if trying to shake my consciousness loose. The world outside distorts, bending and twisting into grotesque caricatures. Streetlights stretch into impossible lines of light, the solid ground beneath me crumbles into nothingness.
I can't breathe. The air turns to ash in my lungs.
I can't move. My limbs are lead, then non-existent.
I am weightless. Falling. Ascending. Spinning. A terrifying, disorienting void.
The darkness devours me, swallowing my thoughts, my very concept of a body, my existence. It's not the darkness of unconsciousness, but a profound, absolute nullification. I try to scream, to lash out, to make sense of the obliteration, but there is no mouth. No voice. No form. Only a terrified, desperate awareness, adrift in an endless, formless void. For how long? Seconds? Minutes? The objective time scale has ceased to exist. Hours? Eternity? The human brain, even one accustomed to trauma, cannot process this.
Then, a sound. A voice—distant, yet impossibly clear, cutting through the formless void like a drill.
"Oh, it's a girl! I was hoping for a boy so he could serve the kingdom as a soldier… but I suppose a daughter isn't so bad either." The words filter in, absurd and mundane, yet devastating in their implication.
My mind, what little is left of it, reels. My pulse, a phantom thrum in a non-existent body, hammers. My existence feels wrong—small, fragile, alien. My lungs, so recently desperate for air in a dying body, now struggle again, tiny and underdeveloped, yet I am cradled in warmth. It's a shocking, unexpected comfort.
Then, another voice. Softer. Loving. Utterly out of place in this cold, logical void.
"Haha, I had a feeling it would be a girl from the moment I carried her in my womb. And now, my sweet little angel… I shall name you Erina."
No. No, no, no. This cannot be happening. This is not how survival works. This is not logical.
Panic surges through me, raw and primal, but I am utterly powerless. I am a prisoner in a reality that defies all reason.
I have been reborn.
And the nightmare, far from ending, has just begun anew.