[3012 Words]
The rain poured in relentless sheets, drenching the thick canopy above and turning the ground beneath their boots into slick mud. Every step was a struggle to maintain balance, but the soldiers moved with mechanical precision, eyes sharp, weapons at the ready. They were on edge, and for good reason.
Einar, a lieutenant in the unit, marched at the centre of the formation, his eyes flicking back and forth across the rain-soaked forest. Every sense was heightened, every muscle taut. He wasn't afraid of battle, not anymore. Fear had been burned out of him a long time ago, replaced by a cold clarity that kept him alive. Yet, beneath the tension and focus, there was a flicker of something else—a sharp thrill that quickened his pulse. The danger, the stakes, the constant need to outthink his opponent—it all lit a small, forbidden spark of excitement in him. But what made his gut twist now wasn't the danger ahead—it was the orders they'd been given.
The path ahead narrowed into a natural choke point, flanked by steep ridges and dense undergrowth. The rain blurred the details, but Einar's mind filled in the gaps. High ground for an ambush. Limited cover for retreat. A kill zone. He glanced at the muddy tracks left by their boots, then up at the canopy—their movements were as obvious as a beacon to anyone watching. The enemy would know they were coming.
"Sir," Einar spoke, his voice low but firm as he stepped toward his commanding officer. The rain made it hard to see his face, but his grey eyes pierced through the haze. "We're walking into a trap. This terrain limits our mobility, and the enemy knows it. If we keep following this path, they'll have every advantage."
The captain—a grizzled, broad-shouldered man who had seen too many battles—gave him a hard look. "Stick to the plan, Lieutenant. The brass says this route is clear, and that's good enough for me."
Einar's thoughts raced as he took a measured breath. 'The brass isn't here, slogging through the mud. They don't see the bottleneck ahead or the lack of visibility. They didn't hear the faint rustle from the ridge just now—too deliberate to be the rain.' He suppressed the urge to snap and kept his tone even. "It's good enough for you, but it's going to get us all killed."
The captain's eyes narrowed. "Watch your tone, Jensen. We follow orders. That's the way it's always been."
Einar mind began mapping out the alternatives. 'If we circle around the ridge, we'd keep the high ground. The undergrowth on the left would slow us, but it'd be safer than walking blind into a funnel.'
"Orders aren't infallible, Captain," he said aloud, his tone sharper than intended. "If we break formation and circle around the ridge, we can avoid the bottleneck and keep the high ground. We're exposed here—"
"Enough!" The captain's voice cracked like thunder, cutting through the downpour. His glare was sharp, daring anyone to challenge him. "You're a soldier, not a strategist, Jensen. Follow the plan, or I'll have you dragged back in chains. Understood?"
The air between them was suffocating. Einar glanced around at his squad mates, seeing the doubt in their eyes. They trusted him. They knew he was right. But none of them spoke up. The weight of command crushed them into silence.
So Einar did what he always did. He swallowed his frustration and fell back into formation.
They followed the plan.
And just as he predicted, the trap was sprung.
The first explosion sent debris and fire into the air, the shockwave ripping through the squad. Shouts of confusion, screams of pain, and the sharp crack of gunfire echoed all around. Einar's heart thundered in his chest as he dove behind a fallen tree, eyes scanning the chaos with calculated precision. His mind worked at breakneck speed, cataloguing positions, possible escape routes, and the rapidly decreasing number of allies still standing.
"Move! Break formation! Get to cover! High ground to the east! Regroup at—"
A bullet zipped past his ear, and he barely had time to flinch. Mud splattered his face as he pressed himself low to the ground. His thoughts were lightning-quick, his body moving before his mind caught up. He knew what he had to do, but it was too late. They were pinned.
The enemy poured in from above, just as he had warned. Flashes of muzzle fire lit up the treetops. Men and women, he'd trained with, laughed with, and fought alongside fell one by one. The captain's voice bellowed somewhere in the distance, barking orders that no one could follow in the storm of bullets and blood.
Einar could only watch as his squad—his family—was torn apart. Every death was another cut to his resolve.
His breath came in sharp, ragged gasps as he fought to suppress the flood of emotion. His mind screamed at him. You knew. You knew, and they didn't listen.
And then, he saw him—his best friend. The one person he had trusted most, crouched behind a broken tree trunk. Their eyes met. No words were exchanged. They didn't need to be. Einar had known this man for years, trusted him with his life.
But something was wrong.
His friend's eyes weren't wild. They weren't afraid. They were calm. Too calm.
The rifle raised, slow, deliberate. No hesitation.
'Why? Why now? There's no time for this.' Einar's mind scrambled for answers even as his chest tightened with something colder than fear. "Don't do this," he gasped, his voice barely audible over the cacophony. "You don't have to do this."
His friend's gaze flickered, just for a moment. Rain soaked his face, but his eyes stayed dry.
"I'm tired, Einar," he said quietly, voice low and flat. His finger hovered over the trigger. "Tired of following orders. Tired of watching them march us straight into hell. And I'm tired of you—" He sucked in a shaky breath. "—always being right."
"You're not thinking clearly," Einar's mind screamed, even as he forced his voice steady. "We'll make it out. Together."
His friend's eyes hardened. "You never listen," he muttered, his grip steady. "They'll sacrifice us, you know. We're mere puppets to them."
His gaze flicked away for just a second—just a second—but it was enough. Einar saw the moment his resolve cracked, saw the flicker of doubt. But the shot had already been fired.
The gunshot echoed louder than it should have, like thunder splitting the sky. Pain exploded through Einar's chest, sharp and all-consuming. His back hit the ground, his breath ripped from him in a violent gasp. His fingers twitched as he tried to reach for something—anything—to anchor himself.
Why? his mind screamed. Why did you have to do it?
His vision blurred, the darkness pressing in from the edges. His heart pounded, sluggish and uneven, as the rain pelted his face. His gaze flickered upward just in time to see his friend's expression crumble.
For the first time, he saw it—the cracks in his resolve.
His friend's hands shook as he lowered the gun, his face contorted in pain. Einar watched as he turned the barrel of the gun toward himself, the rain dripping off his chin like tears. His breath hitched, a quiet, broken sound that barely reached Einar's ears.
"I'm sorry," his friend whispered one final time, voice cracking under the weight of it all. He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.
Another shot echoed through the rain-soaked forest. His friend's body crumpled to the ground, lifeless. Blood mingled with the rain, swirling in small, red currents in the mud.
Einar's world tilted. His mind clawed at one final thought, holding it tight like a lifeline.
If only I had control of the board.
.
.
.
The last thing he remembered was the rain falling endlessly, drowning him in the cold.
Then darkness.
There was nothing. No sound. No sensation. No light. Until there was.
.
.
.
The soft clack of a chess piece echoed in the quiet room, punctuating the heavy silence. The air felt charged, thick with the weight of unspoken expectations. Einar stared at the board, his fingers hovering over the knight, indecision furrowing his brow.
"You're staring too long, Einar," his grandfather said, his voice steady, sharp as a blade. He shifted in his leather armchair, the groan of the leather seeming louder than it should have been. "Staring doesn't move the pieces."
Einar's jaw tensed. His fingers hovered, before moving a different piece.
His grandfather leaned forward, moving his queen with the grace of a predator. Click.
"Hesitation is loss," he said, leaning back slowly. "Every second you waste thinking without acting is a second your opponent uses to gain control."
Einar's eyes flicked up, catching his grandfather's gaze—a stare as cold and unyielding as the marble king on the board. He gripped the knight between his fingers, his knuckles whitening as he moved it forward with deliberate precision. Scrape.
His grandfather raised an eyebrow. "Good. Forward. Progress." He tapped the board with one finger, each tap deliberate. "But forward isn't enough. You need purpose. Control."
The old man leaned forward, fingers tapping on a pawn, slowly pushing it ahead one square. "Do you know why pawns exist, Einar?"
Einar didn't answer. He already expected an answer.
"Leverage," his grandfather continued, sliding the pawn forward with a faint, deliberate push. "They're small, weak, forgettable. But they control space. Pressure. Sacrifice a pawn at the right moment, and suddenly your opponent has no good moves left."
Einar's fingers drummed on the edge of the table. "So they're meant to lose?"
His grandfather's gaze sharpened like a knife. "Not lose. Serve." He glanced at Einar, his eyes narrowing with quiet authority. "Everyone plays a role. Pawns, knights, rooks, kings. But the one who controls the board?" He tapped his temple with a single finger. "He controls them all."
Silence hung between them like the final breath before battle.
"That's why you need to learn this," his grandfather said, leaning back, his fingers steepling under his chin. "Strategy. Discipline. One day, you'll inherit my business, and you'll need to understand how to control the board—both in theory and in practice."
Einar's fingers froze over the board, his gaze locked on his remaining pawn. "I'm not interested in your business," he muttered. Metaphors. That's how his grandfather always spoke, not directly.
The old man tilted his head, his gaze cutting through Einar like a razor. "Then stop thinking like a pawn."
He leaned forward, his voice cold as winter air. "Everyone plays a role, Einar. You don't get to choose it. You prove it." His eyes narrowed to slits. "Perhaps one day, you'll have the wit to create your own board. But until then, learn. Watch. Because control isn't given—"
He pressed his queen down hard on the board, pinning one of Einar's knights beneath it. Click.
"—it's taken."
...
"Yasu."
"Yasu?" the voice called out again.
His grey eyes blinked back into focus, settling on the woman standing before him. For a moment, he said nothing, only stared at her face as if seeing it for the first time. Her dark hair was swept up into a loose knot, a few strands framing her gentle yet tired features. She was smiling at him, but it didn't quite reach her eyes, though not from lack of trying.
His new mother.
The thought sat heavy in his chest, as it often did. She had stepped away just moments earlier, leaving him alone with the wooden writing board and the inkstone she had carefully prepared. Now she was back, wiping her hands on a cloth and sitting beside him. The faint scent of soap and herbs lingered in the air—comforting, in its own way.
"Were you daydreaming again?" she asked lightly, brushing an invisible speck of dust from the corner of the board.
Yes.
Yasu shook his head no, though he didn't offer an explanation. He glanced down at the kanji he had been practicing, their strokes uneven and hesitant compared to her own graceful examples. His hand tightened slightly around the brush, but he said nothing, waiting for her to take the lead.
"You've been doing well," she said after a pause, picking up the board to examine his work. "Though this one here…" She pointed to the character for "tree," the vertical stroke curved when it should have been straight. "See this? You need to hold your wrist steadier when you draw the line. Like this."
She took his small hand in hers, guiding the brush over the paper in a slow, deliberate motion. Her touch was warm, and though her grip was firm, there was a softness to the way she corrected him, her voice calm and measured.
"Better," she said, pulling back and letting him try on his own. Yasu adjusted his grip and carefully retraced the kanji, his strokes still imperfect but closer this time. She nodded approvingly, the corners of her mouth lifting just a little more.
To her, Yasu was an odd child—not in a way that worried her, but enough to make her pause. He rarely asked for anything, never fussed or played the way most children his age did. Instead, he spent hours lost in books or staring out the window, his grey eyes distant, as if searching for something beyond her reach. He didn't seek her affection, not in the way other children might cling to their mothers for comfort. And yet, there were moments like this—small and fleeting—when he seemed present, as though he were trying, in his own quiet way, to meet her halfway.
For Yasu, these lessons were… tolerable. She wasn't a teacher—not really—but she tried, and he couldn't fault her for that. Still, he felt a strange distance between them, one he didn't quite know how to bridge. She loved him, he could tell—in the way she patiently guided his hand, the way her voice softened when she said his name. But love was something he had long since forgotten how to return. He wasn't even sure he understood it anymore.
She was his... mother. The word felt strange on his tongue, foreign and unfamiliar, yet it was reality now. It was just the two of them—her and him—in the small, weathered house. She told him he had no father, but he knew she was lying.
He could tell by the way her voice wavered slightly when she said it, how her eyes darted to the corner of the room, and the nervous twitch in her fingers as she gripped the edge of the table.
The truth lingered there, unspoken, but heavy enough to feel.
"Let's try a few more," she said, breaking the silence. "Do you remember the one for 'mountain'?"
Yasu nodded and began to write, his brush moving slowly but steadily across the paper. His strokes were sharper this time, more precise. She watched him with quiet pride, her hands folded neatly in her lap.
"Good," she said softly, as if speaking any louder might shatter the fragile peace between them. "Very good."
Yasu glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, then quickly looked away, his chest tightening with something he couldn't quite name. He set the brush down and folded his hands in his lap, his expression as unreadable as ever.
She sighed, a quiet sound, and reached out to ruffle his hair. "You've been working hard. We'll stop for now."
He didn't pull away from her touch, but he didn't lean into it either. Instead, he simply sat there, letting the moment pass without acknowledging it. She didn't seem to mind.
As she began to gather the papers and brushes, Yasu stared at the kanji he had written, his grey eyes tracing each line with an intensity that belied his age. In another life, these lessons might have felt insignificant—a mundane chore, easily forgotten. But now, they felt like something else entirely.
His gaze shifted to the notes she had written earlier, her delicate strokes forming characters far more elegant than his own. He reached out, tracing one of the kanji with his finger, the paper cool under his touch. Learning Japanese was definitely not for the weak.
Three years in this new life, and he still stumbled over basic phrases at times. It was frustrating, exhausting even. But he had no choice—not if he wanted to meet even the most basic need of communicating.
A pang of longing struck him then, sharp and sudden. He missed home. His past life. Even if it had been miserable in it's own way, it had been familiar. A place where he hadn't needed to start over. His hand drifted to his chest, brushing over the spot where the bullet had torn through him—where his friend had pulled the trigger and ended everything. The memory was faint, like a ghost's whisper, but the ache it left behind was real enough.
He shook the thought away, his fingers curling into a fist. There was no point dwelling on it. This was his life now, strange and imperfect as it was. He picked up the brush again, setting the tip against the paper, and began to write.
Yasu stared at the kanji on the paper, his grey eyes sharp and focused. His mother's examples lined the top of the page—perfect, disciplined, untouchable. His own attempts were clumsy by comparison, uneven strokes crossing the page like scattered soldiers on a battlefield.
He frowned, his eyes narrowing in thought. "No wasted movement," he muttered, remembering the words of another life.
His brush hovered over the page. Not yet. Not until he had a plan.
He glanced at the examples once more, studying them as if they were enemy formations. Then, slowly, his brush moved with purpose. This time, his strokes were sharper, cleaner, like blades cutting through fog.
His mother glanced over and smiled. "That one's much better, Yasu."
He didn't reply, his eyes fixed on the page—distant, but unwavering.
Pieces on a board.
'If I command them, I win.'