The year was 1942.
The earth itself had become a graveyard. Snow swallowed corpses faster than priests buried
names, and the silence that followed artillery fire was always louder than the fire itself.
I stood among men who called themselves soldiers, but most were little more than cattle dressed
in khaki. Their eyes clung to empty promises - medals, glory, survival - as if belief alone could
shield them from bullets. Belief is the most fragile armor of all.
The Eastern Front was no battlefield; it was an execution ground. The Soviets burned their own
villages to starve us, and my own commanders demanded obedience over reason. Discipline is
easy when you have nothing left to lose. That's why I endure.
They call me General Takeda now. A poor farmer's son wearing borrowed rank. I did not inherit
power; I carved it from the weak. My family, my village - reduced to ash in a raid when I was a
boy. Revenge was the only inheritance left to me. Others cling to patriotism. I cling to the
memory of flames.
"General, the northern sector has fallen," a lieutenant whispered, eyes downcast, as if afraid I
would break him simply by noticing him. Fear is useful. But useless fear… is a liability.
I dismissed him with a nod. My mind was elsewhere. Reports had come in: a new Soviet
commander had taken control of the enemy flank. Precise. Ruthless. Soldiers spoke her name
like a curse.
Anastasia Volkov.
Volkov. Wolf. The daughter of a Soviet general whose shadow stretched long over this war.
Unlike her comrades, she was not shaped by poverty but by privilege. Yet privilege does not
soften everyone. Sometimes it breeds something sharper - entitlement fused with calculation. A
predator raised in command.
Our forces clashed near a ruined town two days ago. Amid the rubble of stone and blood, I saw
her shadow on the opposite rooftop for the first time. A figure framed by smoke, weapon steady,
posture unshaken. We locked eyes through the scope's shimmer.
A single bullet could have ended it then. But hesitation lingered, a hesitation neither of us should
have allowed. She didn't shoot. Neither did I.
Later, I found the rooftop empty, but not silent. Blood marked the snow - fresh, deliberate. She
had been wounded. I followed the trail, half-expecting a trap, half-curious why a commander
would remain in such an exposed position.At the top, I found only the echo of her presence - the smell of gunpowder, a discarded strip of
cloth, red with her blood. My men urged me to leave, but I lingered, crouched beside the stain as
if studying an artifact.
Why hadn't she fired? Pity? Arrogance? Or was it the same reason I hadn't?
Distrust is natural. But curiosity - curiosity is dangerous.
That night, back at camp, the question followed me like a shadow.
I have killed without hesitation before. Men older than me. Boys younger than me. Enemies who
begged. Enemies who cursed. I never spared them, because hesitation only multiplies death. Yet
when her eyes met mine, I held my fire.
Why?
I replayed the moment over and over, dissecting it as I dissect every human weakness. Perhaps I
saw in her something I recognized in myself - a mind unclouded by illusions, a predator standing
among sheep. To kill her in that instant would have been simple. But it would also have been
wasteful.
Some enemies are not meant to be erased immediately. Some are worth studying. Because their
survival reveals more than their death ever could.
The snow outside rattled against the canvas of my tent. My men slept, clinging to dreams of
home they would never see again. I remained awake, staring at the darkness, realizing something
that unsettled even me.
The battlefield had given me countless enemies. But this one… was not like the others.
In the morning, a runner arrived breathless, frost clinging to his lashes. His words were scattered,
but the meaning was clear enough: Soviet units had begun moving with surgical precision,
advancing faster than our scouts had predicted.
At their head was a new pattern of command, one unmistakable. Cold. Methodical. Relentless.
Her hand was already reaching toward me.
The game had begun.
(End of Chapter One - The Wolf in the Snow)