chapter 1

Prologue

In the eighteenth century, in the year 61, after the massacre of sacrifice that brought tears to eyes and terror to hearts, the Slavic state of Domonia descended into an abyss of blood and destruction, embroiled in a bitter conflict with its neighbor, Sokanya.

Ferocious battles raged, ending in Domonia's defeat, which was then divided into three regions. The country entered a period of sporadic skirmishes until a deceptive calm fell over it. Yet, the silence did not last long before the northern region launched a surprise assault on the southern region, with its capital, Ranitia, collapsing under a swift and devastating blow that overwhelmed its defenses within a few months.

As the spring of my first year in university dawned, I found myself surrounded by the very fears I had harbored for as long as I could remember. During this time, our southern capital fell swiftly, and the country declared a state of emergency. Government offices were closed, and volunteer centers were opened in southern (Opmania) and western Domonia under the banner of the "Liberation Army."

I was swept along with them. My beloved Reem, with her silent smile, lingered in my heart, as if she knew that our separation was inevitable. I would leave her now, behind me, on a journey whose end I could not foresee, a journey of liberation with an uncertain fate. Either I would return to myself as I once was, or lose myself forever.

And so, I told myself, "Patience, O soul."

---

Chapter One

In the midst of the desert of western Idwinia, teeming with graves, we traveled during the final days of Mordad (the fifth month), riding in buses carrying volunteers. Along the way, we passed a newly constructed military airbase, with its towers still being built, on the road leading to an Oshpik training camp south of the city of Sokhoi Mor. Upon arrival at the camp, we sat beneath the sun's harsh glare, seeking shelter along the interior length of the outer wall. The stench of sweat, particularly from the 300 volunteers, was unbearable.

As the shadow of the wall shrank, making us feel as though we were standing on a narrow path overlooking a steep cliff, the group leader ordered us to rise so we could complete our registration.

After a month, we had finished both physical and educational exercises, leaving only the one thing that set us apart from ordinary civilians: handling and using weapons. I don't mean that we would become extraordinary; where I grew up, even children were adept with firearms. But once we took up arms, we would no longer be considered civilians. In other words, being killed in the field would no longer be considered a crime.

However, before that, they intensely focused on the religious teachings of the Oshpik faith, the dominant religion in the country. Although I was not an Oshpik and didn't recognize Kheritiosh as the father of humanity, the many lectures instilled in us a sense of unity with every Oshpik believer, regardless of their country. I found it positive that religion could serve to unite people rather than tear them apart and fuel meaningless conflicts.

The only field weapon they explained to us in detail was the K-47 rifle, with a 7.39mm caliber. It was a very familiar weapon to me, as it was frequently seen in the hands of the useless police where I grew up. Alongside it was the Makarov pistol.

When my turn came in the long queue, I was lost in thought when the old woman behind the desk asked me,

"What is your name?"

"Adam Schopper Opat."

"Have you ever fired a gun before? Are there any weapons you are proficient with?"

Caught off guard, I hesitated before replying, "No."

Then I corrected myself: "Actually, I've used an R-98 rifle before."

"Have you fired it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She glared at me sharply through her glasses.

"What is your accuracy like?"

"Not bad."

She stared at me for a moment, and I feared she would ask me what I had fired at. But she only said,

"Alright, we may call you for sniper training if the opportunity arises."

"Understood, ma'am."

I finally breathed a sigh of relief when she looked down to jot some notes, sparing her from learning that I had killed a father and son in revenge for the death of my beloved Reem's father.

When I joined the light weapons training for recruits, we began with lectures about the weapons' origins and capabilities. The instructor referred to them as "the king's angels." I still remember some of his words:

"As expected from the weapons of the Union... the Min 21... the Min 29... Grad... Katyusha... And of course, the Kadinikov—the angel king. The king of weapons, the undefeated weapon. It is the symbol of revolution... the weapon of resistance, of resilience, of freedom, of cold. It is the perfect wife for every man, the companion of every fighter."

I thought to myself, 'Wait, are these all descriptions of a piece of metal? What about Reem? Isn't she the perfect wife? No, is it even right to compare her to a weapon?'

He continued: "It is the best for facing enemies in every battlefield."

'Wait, isn't your enemy the one making these rifles?' I thought.

"And your savior in every confrontation. But no matter how excellent the weapon is, without ammunition, it is nothing but a lifeless piece of iron. And without a skilled operator, it becomes a dangerous tool even to its wielder. That's why you must learn how to use it. A skilled marksman is the one who transforms this tool into a weapon of power, achieving victory."

Someone asked, "So, sir, when will we start firing?"

"Once you've mastered handling it. You're free to empty your rounds into the air or the heads of your enemies. But without mastery, you might end up emptying them into the head of one of your comrades instead."

The eager recruit fell silent.

We passed the rifle around after removing its magazine. When it was passed to me, it was heavier than I had expected, probably around five kilograms, though I wasn't sure. It had light-colored wooden grips and dark-colored painted metal, with a crescent-shaped magazine extending forward. I passed it along, and we began practical drills on assembling, disassembling, cleaning, and loading it. All that remained was live fire practice. I understood its mechanism the first time, but my weak hands prevented me from earning the top spot in speed assembly or disassembly, and I cut my fingers multiple times.

At that time, I met the boy who had secured first place in speed disassembly and assembly. He helped me once when I nearly fell off the net obstacle during training. His name was Nikolai Nozdav, a young man with brown hair and green eyes, bearing a scar above his left eyebrow. He had a firm face despite being in his twenties.

In the desert training ground, surrounded by embarrassing mistakes and continuous firing by shaky-handed recruits, the instructor would shout at me every time I missed a shot, causing severe embarrassment and regret. Balancing the front sight with the expected recoil and managing the rifle's weight was the hardest part. Not to mention the constant ear pain and headache I experienced every night. Sometimes I was too exhausted to sleep, yet the pain kept me awake.

After a month of all that suffering, we were finished. We were infantrymen, so we weren't given any specialized training beyond basic shooting skills, brief theoretical lessons, physical conditioning, and obedience to orders—no matter what they were.

Then one day, it was time.

We headed to the airport and boarded a large transport plane. It was my first time flying, but this time we weren't heading home or to the north to fight the rebels there. I soon realized that we were heading to Sokanya.

I felt the intense drop in pressure during takeoff. Although I managed to hold back my nausea, many others did not, and it was a terrible sight. After about an hour and forty minutes of flight and severe queasiness, we landed at one of the airports in the Sokanya capital, Bagas.

After a lot of confusion and protests from many in the hall, a commander explained that we would be heading to fight the enemies of our country in Giganstan, a land south of Sokanya, bordering the Black Sea to the west. We were to hold the land to dry up the sources of the northern rebels (Kropstia). But that didn't stop the grumbling from continuing in the large hall. Moments later, a man dressed in brown entered, leaning on a long staff topped with the symbol of the Oshpik religion—a spear with dragon-like wings extending from its sides.

He entered with measured steps, flanked by what appeared to be intimidating priests, taller and more imposing than anyone in the hall. Silence fell, and only the sound of their footsteps could be heard. He ascended the platform previously occupied by an officer, who stepped aside with a respectful salute. To the right and left of him stood the two giant priests in red robes, their faces obscured. The old man appeared to be in his seventies, judging by his wrinkles. He gazed at us coldly before speaking in a deep, raspy voice:

"I know some of you may be wondering why you are here... Well, isn't that the same as asking why we exist at all?... Every being created by the Lord has a purpose... And your purpose here is the safety of your country and your faith.

Our country is in danger, and we all agree on its importance. But I ask you, proud people of Domonia: Is not your religion more important?"

(We looked at each other). In a land like yours, neighboring Sukania—the country that protects every Oshpik in the world, the country that represents every struggling Oshpikian—tell me, by Kharitosh, do you really worry about your homeland, with Sukania as your neighbor, which has protected it for the past 24 years? Even this morning, Sukania sent 10,000 of its most elite and capable soldiers, along with thousands of Opmanyans like you, to confront the northern traitors and thwart their schemes, just as they did before with the traitors of the western region, Edwinia." (At this moment, some of us from Edwinia started to glance around). He continued: "The traitors of Edwinia, who betrayed their religion and homeland for the sake of the enemy's interests. Believe me, no matter what you do, no matter how costly it seems to you, it won't equal even a fraction of the favor Sukania has done for our country. Today, we are not merely going to another land; we are going to defend our own land from an enemy that is more dangerous to our religion. The enemy that planted misleading ideas in the northerners and made them betray their brothers. The monotheists of Odin and their poisonous ideas that supported and incited the northerners and the rebels from Krobistia and Opmania all came from that accursed desert land of Gaganstán, which incited our killing hundreds of years ago. Today, now, despite the simplicity of what we will do, we will show those aggressors how the sons of Kharitosh will respond, taking revenge and settling the score simultaneously. The hour of retribution has come for those who oppressed, divided, and killed you over the years that have passed. We will make those criminals taste the tearing apart of their lands into warring provinces, just as they did to our beloved Domonia. We will cut off the head of the serpent that incited our killing and poisoned the minds of our brothers in the north and west of our land for 24 years. Today, Gaganstán, and tomorrow, the Kingdom, and we will liberate the entire Slavian nation from every villain, coveter, and divider of brothers, turning the tables on those who wish to burn us, and instead, we will burn them in their own homes."

The speaker's tone grew more

intense towards the end, and as he finished, cheers of excitement—and also hatred—rose. Around 200 volunteers raised their fists high in the air, and I raised mine with them. Everyone was ready and eager for revenge… and I still didn't know what was happening.