Mark walked out of the tunnel and into the trench. The white gas was beginning to dissipate in the blanched air, making his surroundings slightly more visible.
He could hear agonized groans and ceaseless hacking, beholding a mass of soldiers squirming on the ground and clutching their bodies in untold throes of torment. This scene was likely the result of a lack of resources from the army. If everyone had been supplied with a mask, there wouldn't have been nearly as many casualties.
Even Paul, a major didn't have one. It went to show how desperate the war effort had become. Both people at home and on the battlefield were suffering due to the prolonged conflict. He was sure that the other side was in a similar condition.
It was like two boxers in a relentless fight. They are beaten, bruised, and blood. Their bodies refuse to budge, but their brains command them to move nevertheless, and their eyesight blur with a burning sensation as they bring themselves back up with brilliant, ruinous determination.
Except, the armies fought way beyond such conditions, with the damage only becoming more perilous, yet neither side showed any willingness to concede. After all, they both fought for so long. So much blood, sweat, and tears have been spent to hold on. Why would they throw all their efforts away just for a loss so late in the fight?
The sun was high in the sky by the time the gas cleared.
Mark peeked out of the trench and saw that the winds seemed to have turned in the other direction, bringing the gas back to the enemy side. With nowhere to go, he sat down where he was and delved back into his thoughts.
But before he could disassociate, a soldier timidly approached him.
"Sir... where is the major?"
The other soldiers who survived the gas heard the question amidst the silence. Tentatively, they all drew closer. It seems that Paul had done something impressive to earn the attention of them all. If they survive, he might be memorialized or something of the like.
Looking at the timid man standing before him, Mark's thoughts hastened to incredible speeds.
'Do I tell them the truth or do I say I don't know? It looks like this man saw me enter with Paul, so feigning ignorance might not work. In that case, what lie should I make?'
He spoke calmly.
"He is dead."
Their mouths widened, but silence followed. Eventually, the timid soldier found the courage to press further.
"What happened in there? I saw you go in with the major and then..."
They thought that he had killed Paul. Which, to be fear, he did.
"An enemy was fatally shot but hadn't died. The major was shot in the neck. I subdued the survivor but by the time I returned to the major's side, it was already too late. I'm sorry."
Mark saw that they all were still apprehensive, almost as if his words had done nothing to fix his situation.
The young soldier shirked back. Anger flooded his face
"Why do you sound so uncaring? He just saved all of us from being blown up! Don't you have any gratitude?"
Blankly, Mark stood up and stretched his mind.
The crowd pacified as he listlessly walked away.
Wind mercilessly flew into his ears. The chill in the air collided with the heat in his body, making his nose run and his skin crawl. Despite how he shivered, the young man felt at peace and unaffected.
He found a quiet and empty place where he sat down and looked at a murky puddle that depicted his face.
It was hard to see himself clearly amidst the dirt, but it seemed that a sense of neutrality had befallen him. He looked pensive, aloof, apathetic, and harsh. Emotion was gone and filled in with a void.
This must have been what the timid man was talking about. It seemed like he was an uncaring lunatic with no regrets or conscience. He was the same way as the higher-ups of the Spheks. He was insane.
Sadly, he couldn't afford to even begin to look insane. Doing so would isolate him further from the other soldiers, and he needed to be close. The only way to have bodybags was by keeping them at his side. Letting them slip away was not in his cards.
'How do I fix this...'
Deciding that the most obvious indicator of emotion was through expression, Mark looked at the puddle.
If one were to pass by, one would see a young man with pale-black eyes making faces at a puddle. Not once in the process did he question why it was so hard for him to express emotion. All he knew was that something was endangering him, and it had to be fixed.
'Then there's always the ability.'
He decided to rely on that for the moment. Until his ability to express emotion is fixed, he would be reliant on the properties given to him as one of the Blessed.
With that in mind, he rose and began walking back, hoping that he could still salvage his connections to the others despite his reaction to Paul's death.
He was greeted with an abnormal sight.
Soldiers were on the move as they bustled through the trench without any clear destination in sight.
Caught off guard, Mark went and asked one of the soldiers about what was happening.
The soldier then hastily said that the other side was invading. After that, he started jogging away to do whatever he was ordered.
Mark saw this and then went over to the slope and peered over it.
A tremendous veil of fog made it nearly impossible to see the other side.
But amidst the whiteness of the barrier, there was a small disruption. Then there was another, and another until the blanch wall was lightly quivering.
Silhouettes outlined themselves in the gas, shouting, screaming, and sprinting forward in a vainglorious charge.