The Himalayas didn't roar.
They watched.
Cold. Ancient. Indifferent.
Snow-covered peaks stretched endlessly, cutting the sky like the bones of dead gods. Up here, sound died quickly. Even war had to whisper.
I lay flat against the ice, my body pressed into the mountain's frozen skin. The wind tore at my clothes, slipping through every gap, every weakness. My fingers were numb despite the gloves. Breathing hurt. Every inhale felt like shards of glass tearing into my lungs.
This wasn't a battlefield.
This was a graveyard waiting to be filled.
I adjusted the sniper rifle slowly, carefully. One wrong movement and the snow beneath me could give way, sending me sliding down into nothingness. The scope fogged for a second, then cleared.
Below me—far below—the mountain pass twisted like a scar through the terrain.
That road was the reason we were here.
Trade routes.
Supply lines.
Pakistan's corridors feeding resources into Chinese-controlled zones. Food. Fuel. Weapons. Information. Cut the road, and you starve the beast without firing a nuke.
That's what the Russian command said.
What they didn't say was how many men would freeze, bleed, or vanish into avalanches before the road ever closed.
"Sniper One, confirm visual," crackled the comms in my ear.
"I see them," I replied quietly.
A convoy crawled through the pass—armored trucks, supply carriers, escort vehicles. Chinese markings. Heavy protection. Disciplined movement.
Professional.
I exhaled slowly.
My heartbeat slowed.
This was the only time my mind went quiet.
Not peace.
Focus.
I placed the crosshair on the lead vehicle's driver.
Not the engine.
The man.
My finger rested on the trigger.
And for a moment—a very small, very dangerous moment—I wondered if he was hungry too.
Then I fired.
The rifle kicked back into my shoulder. The suppressed crack vanished into the wind. Through the scope, I watched the driver's head snap back violently. The vehicle swerved, slammed into the rocky wall, blocking the narrow pass.
Chaos bloomed instantly.
"CONTACT! CONTACT!"
Chinese soldiers spilled out of vehicles, scrambling for cover, shouting orders in sharp bursts. Snow exploded as bullets tore through it.
I didn't stop.
Second shot.
A soldier dropped mid-run, legs folding like they'd forgotten their purpose.
Third shot.
A radio operator collapsed, mouth open, words dying before they were born.
"Sniper fire! Find the shooter!"
Too late.
I shifted position, crawling sideways like a shadow, snow soaking into my clothes. The mountain hid me, embraced me. Up here, I wasn't a man.
I was part of the terrain.
Below, Russian artillery opened up.
The first shell hit near the rear of the convoy, flipping a vehicle onto its side. Fire blossomed against the white snow—orange and black, violently out of place. Explosions echoed through the valley, bouncing between peaks like thunder trapped in a cage.
It reminded me of Dunkirk stories I'd heard long ago.
Men stranded.
Fire raining from above.
No escape but forward.
Except this time, the sea was snow.
And it showed no mercy.
I picked targets calmly.
Officer giving orders.
Machine gunner setting up.
Soldier trying to drag a wounded friend.
Each trigger pull was a decision.
Each decision erased a future.
My hands didn't shake.
That scared me more than the enemy fire.
"Advance! Push them into the choke point!" Russian command barked.
Infantry moved in from the ridges, silhouettes cutting through smoke and snow. The Chinese forces fought back hard—disciplined, coordinated. Bullets cracked past my position, close enough that I felt the air shift.
A round struck the rock inches from my head.
Too close.
I rolled, slid down a few meters, snow filling my collar, heart pounding now. Not fear—instinct. Survival screaming louder than thought.
I set up again, faster this time.
Through the scope, I saw it.
Movement on the opposite ridge.
Another sniper.
Our scopes met at the same time.
For a fraction of a second, the world narrowed to just two lenses staring into each other.
Whoever fires first lives.
I fired.
His shot came a heartbeat too late.
Blood sprayed across the snow behind him as his body collapsed backward, tumbling down the slope until it vanished into white emptiness.
I didn't feel victorious.
I felt… hollow.
The battle dragged on for hours.
Snow turned red, then brown, then black with smoke. Bodies froze where they fell, faces locked in expressions that would never soften. Vehicles burned until fuel ran out, leaving twisted metal corpses behind.
The trade route was cut.
At an unimaginable cost.
As silence finally crept back into the mountains, I stayed prone, rifle still aimed, waiting for threats that might never come.
The wind howled.
The Himalayas watched.
And somewhere deep inside me, something shifted.
Not yet power.
Not yet madness.
But a crack.
Because as I stared down at the frozen dead, one truth settled heavily in my chest:
The mountains remember everything.
And they were watching me learn how to kill without hesitation.
I pulled back from the scope.
Snow fell softly again, covering blood, hiding sins.
But nothing truly disappears.
Not up here.
The battle ended the way it always did.
Not with victory.
With silence.
Bodies lay scattered across the pass—twisted shapes half-buried in snow, rifles frozen in dead hands, eyes staring at a sky that no longer belonged to them. Blood soaked into the white ground, turning it dark, ugly, real. The mountains didn't care. The wind moved on. Snow began its quiet work of erasing names.
Then the crows came.
At first, only one.
It landed on a broken truck, feathers black as burned oil, head tilting as if curious. Then another. Then dozens. They circled lazily above the battlefield, patient, knowing time was on their side.
I watched as they descended.
Sharp beaks tore into fabric, into flesh. Wings flapped violently as they fought over what remained. The sound was wrong—wet, tearing, alive. The dead didn't move. They didn't scream. They had already given everything.
I didn't look away.
I couldn't.
"They had no choice either," I whispered, my breath fogging the scope.
Chinese soldiers. Russian soldiers. No difference anymore.
They were all dragged here by the same invisible hand—orders, hunger, fear, duty, lies. Each one of them had stood up knowing they might not lie down again. Each one of them had chosen to fight because the alternative was worse.
Run—and be hunted.
Surrender—and disappear.
Refuse—and starve.
So they fought.
Till the last breath.
Till the last bullet.
Till their bodies gave up even when their will didn't.
Brave.
That word tasted bitter in my mouth.
Not the kind of bravery sung in stories. Not the kind written in medals and speeches. The quiet bravery of men who knew they were disposable and still stood their ground.
I lowered my rifle.
For the first time since this war began, my chest felt heavy—not with fear, not with rage—but with something close to respect.
"We're the same," I murmured to the dead.
"Just born on different sides of a broken world."
The crows didn't care.
They kept eating.
Snow fell harder now, covering boots, faces, blood. The mountains watched in silence, ancient witnesses to another pointless offering.
And somewhere deep inside me, that crack widened just a little more.
Because I understood something I couldn't unlearn:
This war isn't killing cowards.
It's devouring the brave first.
I slung the rifle over my shoulder and stood up slowly.
The pass was taken.
The trade route was dead.
Tomorrow, another battlefield would demand the same price.
And I would go.
Not because I wanted to.
But because breathing, in this world, still had a cost.