Of course! Here's the translation:
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My previous life wasn't the easiest. I was born at the dawn of a new millennium, a time of hope that humanity would enter a bright and peaceful future. But reality turned out to be much harsher.
My homeland was undergoing a painful period of transformation and rising from the ashes. For many years, people were preoccupied with survival. Justice and morality were replaced by the rule of strength and selfishness. The dawn had given way to dusk.
But even such hard times don't last forever. Gradually, the country began to recover. The horrors of the past years were forgotten like a fever dream, and hope for a better future started to sprout in people's hearts.
I could be considered quite lucky. Being born into a fairly wealthy family meant I never knew hunger or cold, and I didn't have to walk the crooked path of crime. Although the times were tough, my childhood was relatively carefree, and my youth coincided with a time of prosperity.
A large, loving family with plenty of brothers and sisters. Wealth, allowing me to afford almost anything. Studying in the best schools and universities. Traveling all over the world. Expensive hobbies.
What more could a young rich person dream of? You have everything! Just live, enjoy life, and deny yourself nothing.
Many of my generation, the "golden youth," did just that—drugs, alcohol, prostitutes, expensive toys.
But not me. I wanted achievements. Personal achievements that would be mine alone, not tied to the family's name or money.
After graduating from school and celebrating the end of it, I began thinking about what path to take. The path of gold—becoming a successful businessman like my father and his siblings. The path of silver—becoming a top-class doctor like my grandfather. The path of chrome—becoming an engineer and creator like my mother.
But none of these paths suited me. I wanted to find my own way. And then my eyes fell on a steel knife I had been given as a child. Pulling it from its sheath, I examined it, and then a thought came to me—why not?
The next morning, I surprised everyone when I announced my decision. Many were against it, calling it a foolish and dangerous choice. Realizing they couldn't convince me, my relatives began seeking a compromise. They suggested becoming a military doctor or an engineer in the defense industry. But I stood firm, and when persuasion failed, the threats came. They threatened to cut me off from money, support, and so on.
Shaking my head and understanding that I wouldn't get any support from my family, I quickly packed the essentials, transferred money from my cards to accounts beyond my father's control, and headed to the airport. From there, I flew to the nearest military academy.
Ah, the mistakes and foolish impulses of youth. But I never regretted my decision, not then, not now.
The admission process went smoothly, and soon my personal hell began for several long years. Sometimes I wanted to quit and return home. No more night shifts or collective punishments for someone else's mistake or stupidity. No more waiting in line for a shower or sneaking in alcohol to celebrate my birthday.
Only my stubbornness and refusal to return like a beaten dog allowed me to finish my training—without distinction, but I finished. Then began the fun of a lieutenant's life, but the fun and excitement didn't last long. The army turned out to be an incredibly conservative and hierarchical institution. After the first year, it felt like Groundhog Day.
Everything repeated day after day: wake up, physical training, breakfast, formation… monotony and boredom.
After celebrating my 25th birthday and looking in the mirror at my face, now starting to gain weight, I got scared. Is this it? Will my greatest achievement be retiring with a chest full of medals for long service and commemorative dates, wearing a size XXL uniform?
This wasn't what I wanted or aimed for seven years ago when I left home.
The next day, I wrote to an organization offering soldiers and officers the chance to serve their country's interests beyond its borders. And so I officially became a mercenary, a dog of war. Unofficially, I was protecting my country's interests, though I didn't always understand or approve of them. But it was better than rotting away in some hole, slowly drinking myself to death, and hoping for promotion based on years of service.
Being a mercenary allowed me to achieve everything I wanted, though I had to remain silent about many things, and I couldn't wear the medals to avoid awkward questions. Although my family knew about my new career and eventually, though not right away, became proud of me.
This continued until my last deployment in a hot country where the interests of two nations collided, leading to a civil war. At first, the battles were between local forces, but as neither side could gain an advantage, mercenaries entered the fray. The war escalated, both in professionalism and brutality. Casualties on both sides grew at a rapid pace, but our organization proved superior, leading to a turning point in the war. But the enemy decided to take a risk and raised the stakes, bringing in regular military units instead of mercenaries.
It was supposed to be a routine reconnaissance in force—to probe the enemy's positions in a village, then hit them with mortars, and if the defense was especially tough, with long-range artillery. We took positions and began exchanging fire. Identifying the main defensive points, we called in mortars, flattening the enemy and charging into the village. Victory was ours, and all that was left was the mop-up. But this was a mistake.
From the hills, planes suddenly appeared, dropping bombs, and now it was our turn to be leveled with the ground. We lost half our company and started preparing to retreat, but they didn't want to let us go, so within minutes, helicopters arrived. Forget retreat; escaping helicopters on open ground was almost impossible. All we could do was sell our lives dearly.
But fate, it seemed, decided to give us a small break that day. In the only surviving armored personnel carrier after the bombing, we found three MANPADS. We waited until the helicopters were as close as possible and fired three missiles, downing two helicopters. The other two deployed flares to avoid the last missile but couldn't escape the guns and cannons of our gun truck, which damaged one of them. The last helicopter, sensing its chances of survival, left its comrades behind and flew off.
With a sigh of relief, I ordered the capture of the downed pilots, planning to use them as human shields while we wrapped things up. I needed—or more honestly, wanted—to find out why this particular village was so important that our enemies had deployed air forces. That was my final mistake, and it cost me my life.
If it weren't for my curiosity, we would have left right after securing the downed pilots, and I'd still be alive. But curiosity killed the cat. In one of the hidden underground storages, we found chemical weapons with barely erased markings. It all became clear—another escalation in the war.
I had just finished reporting to my command when I heard a distant roar and saw enemy planes in the sky. They dropped bombs, aiming for the chemical weapons stockpile. I watched the bombs fall in slow motion. The last thing I did before the explosion consumed me was smile.
That's how my life ended on Terra in the 2nd millennium—and how it began on Terra in the 30th millennium.