"Fix bayonets!" He shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos as the enemy clashed into their line.
Frainh screamed as his bayonet plunged into the enemy throat, the blade cutting his throat. The man collapsed, clutching his insides as he gurgled his last breath.
"Push them back!"
He shouted as he tried to wipe off the enemy blood of his face, but an enemy soldier lunged at Frainh, their bayonet aiming for his heart, but his radioman Ivan pulled his revolver trigger just in time sending bullets toward his head.
The trench became a slaughterhouse.
The field became a graveyard, littered with fallen soldiers whose lifeless forms lay twisted and broken in the grass.
Everywhere he looked, bodies lay strewn across the battlefield, some lifeless and others writhing in agony, their screams cutting through the chaos like knives. Men, once filled with courage and resolve, were reduced to mangled heaps of flesh, their faces twisted in expressions of terror and pain.
A soldier nearby clutched his severed arm, blood spurting from the wound in sickening arcs, painting the ground crimson.
Another soldier's leg was pinned beneath a fallen beam, his screams a gut-wrenching symphony of despair as he struggled against the weight.
But it was not just for them, he too was hit.
The realization struck him as adrenaline wore off and sudden pain erupted in his stomach then he fell on the ground.
After the pain the cold was the first thing that hit him.
His thoughts were muddled, every movement sluggish. Blood loss was setting in, pulling him in and out of consciousness.
When Lucian opened his eyes again, the chaos of the battlefield was gone.
He was home.
The familiar scent of roasted meat and fresh herbs wafted through the air, bringing with it a wave of warmth that washed over him.
Lucian's mind wandered back to the days when this was his reality—his home, his family. The hours his brother, Kaelen, and he would spend together, their laughter filling the house.
The smell of his brother's favorite roast, the sound of their footsteps on the creaky wooden floor it all came flooding back.
Lucian turned, and there they were—Kaelen, his younger brother, standing at the stove, carefully tending to a pot, his back turned to him.
His movements were calm and deliberate, the same as ever. Lucian could almost hear his brother's voice, teasing him about how slow he was to arrive, always late to dinner, as if nothing had changed.
The weight of emotion in Lucian's chest tightened as he watched.
His brother—alive, well, and here. He had missed him. He had missed this more than words could ever explain. It was the thought of coming home to Kaelen's teasing smile, his strength, and his unwavering loyalty that kept him going during the long, brutal nights on the battlefield. He stepped forward, his boots echoing softly on the floor.
"Kaelen?"
Kaelen turned, and his face lit up with a grin. "Finally, you are here, mom is still at work so I made dinner."
It felt so real. Too real. The smells, the sounds, the warmth of the kitchen—it was everything he remembered.
But there was something deep in his gut, a quiet, nagging voice telling him that something wasn't right. Lucian glanced down at his hands.
The blood was still there. Thick, dark, and dripping from his fingers. His heart skipped a beat. Why was it still there? Why hadn't it gone away?
"Kaelen...?" Lucian whispered, barely able to speak. His blood dripped onto the floor, staining the clean wood.
His brother's smile faltered. Slowly, Kaelen's gaze shifted to Lucian's hands, and his expression shifted from confusion to one of horror. His eyes widened in shock, his body stiffening as he backed away.
"Lucian... why are you covered in blood?" Kaelen asked, his voice cracking with fear.
He couldn't speak. The blood—it wouldn't stop. It kept pouring from him, faster and faster, spreading across the floor, crawling toward Kaelen, the walls, everywhere.
He tried to step back, but the blood followed, relentless, unstoppable.
The house shook.
Before Lucian could react, the ceiling caved in. An explosion shook the room, sending wood splintering, glass shattering, and dust choking the air. Lucian was thrown to the ground, his body slamming into the floor with sickening force.
His vision blurred as the dust swirled around him. He blinked, trying to clear the fog from his mind.
Through the haze, he saw Kaelen—still standing in the wreckage, his face pale, his body trapped beneath fallen beams. Lucian's heart dropped into his stomach as he tried to crawl toward him, but his legs wouldn't move. His body refused to respond.
"Kaelen!" Lucian cried out, but his voice felt distant. His brother reached out to him, shaking, his eyes wide with terror, but it was too late.
Another explosion rocked the room, sending everything into chaos. The world went black.
When Lucian opened his eyes, everything had changed. The warmth of the house was gone, the wreckage of home had vanished, and he found himself standing in an endless, empty white void. There were no walls, no floor, no ceiling—just cold, sterile emptiness.
He was alone—or so he thought.
From the mist, figures began to emerge, faint, ghostly shapes at first, then clearer as they approached.
His breath caught in his throat as he saw them—Kaelen, his brother, standing before him, his body broken and bloodied, just as it had been beneath the rubble. His eyes, once filled with life, now stared emptily at Lucian.
Behind him stood the faces of his comrades soldiers who had fallen under his command. They, too, were bloodied and torn, their faces gaunt and hollow, their bodies still carrying the wounds of the past.
"You couldn't save us." "Why did you leave us behind?" "Why are you still alive when we're not?" You left us…you left us!
Then, suddenly, a voice broke through the nightmare, pulling him from the darkness.
"This is Ivan! I repeat, General is down! He's bleeding heavily! We need medics now!" His voice trembled with urgency, desperation spilling over as he called for help.