The world had shrunk to a muddy clearing that smelled of blood and wet earth. The air itself felt heavy — as if the war carried physical weight. Before Koba lay the mission: cold, precise, unforgiving. Behind him knelt Pavel, mud-streaked and silent, his refusal to abandon the wounded speaking louder than any objection.
Sergeant Klaus stepped forward, hand on his pistol.
"I'm not asking, Herr Schmidt. That's an order. We're leaving. My men aren't Red Cross nurses."
Jake's conscience screamed inside Koba's head: You can't leave them. They're dying.
The strategist snarled back: Ipatieff. The mission. Every second counts.
And rising beneath them both came the Kingdom-Builder — the part of Koba that viewed morality as a weakness.
"You're right, Sergeant," Koba said at last. His voice was steady, chillingly calm. "We are wasting time."
Klaus nodded, relieved. "Good. Then let's—"
"But you're wrong about what this is." Koba's tone shifted, pulling every eye toward him. "This isn't a burden. It's an opportunity."
Klaus scoffed. "An opportunity? It's a ditch full of corpses. Their army's finished. They're worthless."
"You see bodies," Koba replied. "I see intelligence." He pointed at a bloodied officer. "He knows his regiment's morale." Another soldier. "Fallback codes." And finally the exhausted Russian doctor. "He's worth more than a dozen prisoners. We're not leaving him. Or the others."
In that instant, something shifted. Koba wasn't merely advising. He was commanding.
He tore a chunk of chalky plaster from a ruined wall and tossed half to Pavel.
"Pavel, Murat — black tags. Gut wounds, head wounds, anyone too far gone. No bandages. No words. They're already dead."
Pavel froze. To him this wasn't triage — it was industrialized death. But the Germans understood at once. Efficiency.
"Ivan! You and the rest — green tags. Minor wounds, walking cases. Water them, move them by the wall. That's our new workforce."
Koba turned to the doctor. "You're with me. Red and yellow tags — the ones who can be saved. Show me which lives are worth the effort."
Chaos flipped into order. Koba didn't save people; he sorted them, birthing battlefield triage not from compassion but from control.
He knelt beside a man bleeding out from a shredded leg. The doctor pressed a filthy rag against it.
"No," Koba said. "You're killing him."
He snatched a dead soldier's belt, looped it high on the thigh, twisted the buckle with a pistol barrel.
"Tourniquet. Stop the flow at the source."
The doctor stared — stunned by the crude miracle.
Nearby, Pavel marked his first dying boy with black chalk. A seventeen-year-old, eyes pleading. Pavel's hand trembled as he drew the mark, realizing he had crossed an invisible line. His moral stand had been absorbed into Koba's machine.
Within thirty minutes the clearing was transformed: the dying sorted, the wounded organized, the critical stabilized. Out of blood and ruin, Koba had built a system — and a weapon.
When it was done, he wiped his hands clean of mud and blood.
"Pavel," he said. "You've done well. You'll stay here. You're in command."
Pavel blinked. "What?"
"Secure the assets. Klaus will leave four men. Interrogate the officers. Bring them to our command post." Koba's eyes hardened. "My mission isn't finished."
He faced the Germans and his own remaining men.
"We're going for our prize."
Without another word, he left the clearing, Pavel standing amid his grim new kingdom.
Beyond the makeshift hospital, the German advance roared like a living storm. Tanks, men, and smoke surged forward in a gray-green tide. Koba and his small team — Murat, Ivan, and four stormtroopers under Klaus — cut through the chaos like sharks. Klaus no longer merely followed him; he revered him.
Oflag 17 appeared ahead — a prison camp more like a wound on the earth: barbed wire, collapsing barracks, prisoners wandering aimlessly, guards long fled.
"This is a mess," Klaus muttered. "Finding one man here? Impossible."
"Nothing is impossible," Koba said. "Only expensive."
He seized a random Russian by the collar, lifted a can of German beef.
"Food," he said in Russian. "For information. I'm looking for a professor. Older. Glasses. Chemist."
Blank stare.
Koba nodded. "Next."
They moved fast — buying answers with calories — until a thin prisoner whispered:
"Ipatieff. They kept him in the solitary block. Said he was dangerous."
Koba tossed him two cans and didn't watch him dive after them.
The solitary building was almost empty — except for one barred cell. Koba kicked the door open.
Inside sat a bearded, fragile man blinking at the sudden light. Vladimir Ipatieff.
He recoiled as Koba stepped closer, expecting execution.
"Professor Ipatieff," Koba said gently. "You're not my prisoner. You're my new colleague."
Ipatieff stared. "Colleague? What do you want from me?"
"Freedom," Koba murmured. "A real laboratory. No generals. No politicians. No limits."
Hope flickered in the man's eyes — dangerous, fragile hope.
"I don't want you to solve problems," Koba whispered. "I want you to invent them."
It was a devil's promise. And Ipatieff knew it.
Gunfire shattered the moment. Screams followed — then the wild, unmistakable cries of Don Cossacks.
"Ambush!" Klaus roared. "South side!"
Koba gripped Ipatieff's arm. "Stay with me!"
Outside, chaos exploded. Cossacks thundered through the camp, hacking down looters and stragglers. German soldiers fired wildly, scrambling to form a line. Klaus and his stormtroopers braced behind crates.
"We need to fall back!" Klaus shouted. "North gate!"
Koba assessed the distance — open ground, a killing zone. Saving Klaus would jeopardize everything — including Ipatieff.
The decision took half a heartbeat.
"Murat! Ivan! West!" he barked. "Use the broken fence!"
He shoved the professor ahead. "Run!"
They sprinted for the collapsed wire. Koba glanced back once — only once. Klaus was staring at him, comprehension sinking in just as the bullets tore into him. His body jerked and crumpled under the fire.
Koba did not slow.
He and his men vaulted the broken fence, dragging Ipatieff toward the sheltering trees. Behind them, the gunfire faded into the distance.
In the forest, the professor leaned against a trunk, trembling, his eyes wide with horror — and understanding.
He had seen what Koba truly was.
A man who would sacrifice anyone.
Abandon anything.
Break every bond.
And Vladimir Ipatieff realized, with a cold clarity that chilled him more than the wind:
He had just become Koba's most valuable possession.