Chapter 1 The Story of a Soldier (7)
665 Words
Part 7: The Moment of No Return
"Every man has a breaking point. A moment where the war swallows what little is left of him. A moment where there is no turning back."
The air burned with smoke and gunpowder, the sky an unnatural shade of red. Buildings stood like broken teeth against the ruined landscape, their skeletal remains casting jagged shadows in the firelight. The soldier moved through the wreckage, his rifle clutched tight, his breath shallow. His uniform was torn, his body battered, but none of it mattered anymore.
This was it.
The final battle.
The enemy had driven them back, forcing them into the remains of a once-thriving town. The streets were filled with bodies, some sprawled where they had fallen, others barely recognizable beneath the rubble. There was no order left, no strategy—only survival.
He had made his choice long ago. He had left Tomas behind. He had survived where others hadn’t. And now, there was nothing left but this.
One last fight.
The soldier moved without hesitation, weaving between the ruins. His boots splashed through puddles of rainwater and blood, his pulse hammering in his ears. The enemy was everywhere—shadows darting between broken walls, voices shouting through the chaos.
Then—a deafening explosion.
The ground shook violently beneath him, a fireball consuming what little remained of a nearby building. The force of it sent him sprawling, his ears ringing, dust and debris raining down. He coughed, blinking through the haze, his head throbbing.
And that’s when he saw them.
An enemy squad—four, maybe five—moving toward the remnants of his unit. His comrades were trapped, pinned down behind the crumbling walls of a ruined home. Their ammunition was running low. They wouldn’t last.
His grip tightened around his rifle.
This was it.
His moment.
His choice.
He could run. Again.
Or he could end this on his own terms.
He inhaled deeply, steadying himself. His hands, once so unsteady, no longer trembled.
And then—he moved.
Darting through the ruins, he circled behind the enemy squad. The smoke cloaked him, turning him into a phantom. They didn’t see him coming. He raised his rifle, the barrel cold against his cheek.
One shot.
A soldier dropped, his body crumpling into the dirt.
Another turned, eyes wide—too slow. A second shot.
Another body fell.
Shouts. Gunfire.
A bullet tore through his side. Pain flared white-hot, but he didn’t stop.
He surged forward, closing the distance, his bayonet flashing in the firelight. He struck without thought, the blade sinking into flesh, blood spraying against his hands. A strangled cry, then silence.
Another soldier lunged at him, but he was faster. He twisted, driving his rifle’s stock into the man’s skull. Bone cracked. The enemy collapsed.
And then—nothing.
The world was quiet.
The enemy squad lay motionless, their bodies tangled in the dirt. Smoke curled around him, the battle still raging somewhere beyond the ruins, but here, in this moment, there was only silence.
He swayed on his feet, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His hand drifted to his side, fingers pressing against the wound. Warm blood oozed between them. He was bleeding badly.
Footsteps.
His comrades.
They were calling his name, their voices distant, frantic.
He tried to turn toward them, but his legs gave out. He collapsed onto his knees, his rifle slipping from his grasp.
His vision blurred.
The sky stretched above him, a vast, endless thing. The stars had begun to pierce through the smoke, tiny fragments of light in an ocean of darkness. He stared at them, mesmerized.
For the first time in forever, it was quiet.
No screams. No gunfire. Just the wind, carrying the scent of something other than blood and death.
His breath shuddered. His body grew heavy.
His comrades were still shouting his name.
But he wasn’t listening.
For the first time since the war began—
He felt at peace.
- Writer
