Gory Sight

As Joseph stood amidst the tense quiet of the battlefield, his mind raced with questions about the peculiar nature of the mole leader. It was unlike any adversary he had ever faced. Newly awakened and yet it had managed to outmaneuver and overpower a coordinated team of seven skilled awakeners, a feat that seemed almost impossible. Joseph was among the top students of his year at Lorence University, an institution in a moderately sized city on planet Krovac. His tier 4 flaming ability had earned him a place among the talents of his generation, yet this mole leader had outclassed them all.

The more Joseph thought about it, the more uneasy he felt. Even accounting for the mole leader's home ground advantage and its command over a vast pack of over a thousand moles, it should not have been this formidable. Unless, of course, the mole's ability was at least tier 6. The thought sent a chill down his spine. If this mole was already this powerful as a newly awakened being, what might it become as a peak awakened? Or worse, as a superior? The implications were terrifying. He realized with growing urgency that this might be the most challenging battle he had ever faced. He had to stop the mole leader now, before it could grow even stronger, no matter the cost.

Just as these thoughts solidified in his mind, a sudden, thunderous explosion erupted from the other side of the battle field, shaking Joseph from his contemplation. Another explosion quickly followed close to the gate. His eyes snapped toward the source of the commotion near the gate, where he saw a young boy, furiously shooting at the moles with an assault rifle. He had tanned skin, and a short, slim physique. Despite the focused look on his face, his body was trembling slightly, betraying his nerves.

Joseph's gaze then shifted to the watchtower within the border, where a girl with striking red hair was calmly firing explosive arrows into the fray. Her demeanor was a stark contrast to the boy's—she was unnervingly calm, as if this were merely another day of target practice. Each arrow found its mark with precision, erupting in fiery blasts that sent moles flying. It was clear she was skilled and composed, using her abilities with a practiced ease that spoke of countless hours of training.

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A few minutes ago...

After grabbing the weapons from the warehouse, the red-haired girl turned to Don and said, "I have a precision ability, I'll have a better view from the top of the watchtower." Don nodded and quickly entered the passcode on the watchtower's access panel for her. As she ascended, Don turned towards the battlefield gate. 

This girl was quite odd, despite her young appearance, the battlefield didn't seem to faze her at all. Her mannerisms indicating she was prepared to defend the border. Along with her calm demeanor, Don felt he could trust this girl. 

As Don hurried toward the battlefield, his heart pounded with a mix of adrenaline and excitement. This was his chance, his moment to step out of the shadow of his father's expectations and take control of his destiny. He had always felt stifled, caged in a life dictated by his father's stern discipline. But now, with the weight of a weapon in his hands and the battlefield spread out before him, he felt a surge of independence and purpose. The idea of turning the tide of battle, of making a real difference, filled him with a fierce determination. In his mind, this was his opportunity to prove himself not just to his father, but to everyone who had ever doubted him. For the first time, Don felt truly alive, ready to embrace the chaos of war and carve his own path through it.

But as he approached the gate, his excitement quickly turned to horror. The battlefield, which he had imagined as a place of glory, was a nightmare come to life. The ground was strewn with the lifeless bodies of both his fellow soldiers and energy crystal remains from the moles. Blood soaked the earth, mixing with the dirt to create a sickening, sticky mud. The air was thick with the stench of death and gunpowder, a nauseating blend that assaulted his senses. He could see the faces of his fallen comrades, their eyes staring blankly into the sky, their bodies contorted in unnatural positions. The once-vibrant uniforms were now stained and torn, barely recognizable amidst the carnage.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. It was just a regular mole horde with at most an awakened mole leading the horde. If it was any larger of a threat, the entire city would have been overtaken by now.

How could a mole horde consisting of unawakened moles cause this much damage? At this point awakened-level reinforcements should have arrived as well, regardless of the amount of unawakened moles, an additional awakened should have been enough to change the tides of the battle. 

The grisly sight was too much for him to bear. Don's stomach churned violently, and he felt bile rising in his throat. Overwhelmed by the sheer horror of the massacre, he stumbled forward a few steps before collapsing to his knees. He retched uncontrollably, vomiting onto the blood-soaked ground. His body shook with each heave, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The reality of what he was seeing hit him like a physical blow, knocking the wind out of him. His vision blurred with tears and dizziness as he tried to comprehend the scale of the death and destruction around him.

As he struggled to stand, his legs felt weak and unsteady. The world around him seemed to spin, a dizzying blur of blood and bodies. His mind, unable to process the horror before him, shut down, and he collapsed again, his body refusing to move. He lay there on the ground, unable to cross the gate, his initial excitement and determination utterly crushed by the brutal reality of war.

Lying there, Don's mind drifted into a haze of memories. He thought of his life before this moment—a life dominated by training and study. His father had always been strict, pushing him relentlessly to excel in combat. While other kids enjoyed their freedom, Don's days were filled with grueling battles and endless lessons. Rarely was he allowed to go out with friends or enjoy the simpler pleasures of childhood.

There was a deep-rooted tension in Don's heart—a desire to prove himself, to show that he was strong enough, capable enough. For as long as he could remember, his father had loomed over his life like an unyielding shadow, casting a long, dark veil over every achievement, every effort. No matter how hard he tried or how much he accomplished, it never seemed to be enough. His father's eyes would remain cold, his words sharp and dismissive. Don felt as if he were perpetually falling short, never quite reaching the ever-shifting goalposts of his father's approval. It was a void that gnawed at him, an insatiable hunger for validation that he could never satisfy.

The longing for acknowledgment was a silent, unspoken plea that had buried itself deep within him. He carried it like a heavy weight in his chest, a constant reminder of the love and pride he so desperately craved but never received. This unfulfilled desire festered over the years, growing into a bitter brew of frustration and yearning that he could never fully articulate. It simmered beneath the surface, twisting into a resentment that colored every interaction he had with his father. He resented the harsh words, the cold stares, the endless training sessions that left him bruised and exhausted. He resented the way his father seemed to withhold affection as if it were a prize to be earned rather than a given.

And yet, now, surrounded by death and destruction, Don felt a flicker of understanding, a brief glimpse into his father's inscrutable mind. It was as if the brutal reality of the battlefield had stripped away the layers of anger and resentment that had clouded his thoughts, revealing a deeper truth he had never been able to see before. His father's strictness, his relentless push for perfection, had been a form of love, twisted and unrecognizable, but love nonetheless. Don's father had never known how to express affection in a gentle way; he had never been one for soft words or tender gestures. His love was hard and unyielding, forged in the fires of discipline and battle.

In his own harsh, unforgiving way, Don's father had tried to prepare him for the world's harshness. He had believed that only through relentless training, only by pushing Don to his absolute limits, could he shield him from the cruelties of life. His father had seen the world for what it was—a place of suffering and hardship—and in his own flawed way, he had tried to protect Don from it by making him strong, by teaching him to fight. But in doing so, he had also pushed him away, creating a chasm between them that had only grown wider with time.

As Don lay there on the bloodstained ground, his heart ached with a confusing blend of emotions—a chaotic swirl of anger, sorrow, and understanding. He felt anger for the childhood he never had, for the joy and freedom that had been denied to him. He felt anger for the emotional distance that had always defined his relationship with his father, for the walls that had been built between them brick by brick, year by year. But alongside the anger, there was a deep, unshakable sadness—a sense of loss for the father he never truly knew, for the relationship they could have had if things had been different.

For the first time, Don saw his father not as the unyielding figure of authority he had always known, but as a man—flawed, fallible, and perhaps just as lost as he was. His father's severity had been a shield, a misguided attempt to protect him from the world's pain, born out of his own fears and insecurities. This painful truth struck Don as deeply as the sight of his fallen comrades, leaving him hollow and broken on the ground. He struggled to reconcile the father he had resented for so long with the man who had, in his own flawed way, tried to love him. The realization left him reeling, his mind spinning with a thousand conflicting thoughts and emotions as he lay amidst the corpses of his comrades, struggling to make sense of it all.

Suddenly, a voice pierced through his daze. "HEY! Wake up! Get it together and start shooting!" It was the girl from the watchtower, her voice firm and commanding. Don blinked away his tears and tried to focus. The girl was perched atop the watchtower, methodically releasing arrow after explosive arrow into the swarming moles. Despite being unawakened, her tier 3 precision ability allowed her to maintain perfect calm and coordination, hitting her targets with unerring accuracy. Each arrow she loosed struck a mole directly in the head, triggering an explosion that took down several more around it. She was careful to aim where there were no patrol guards, avoiding any collateral damage to their own side.

Shaken but determined, Don struggled to his feet. The sight of his fallen comrades still lingered, a haunting shadow that refused to leave his mind. He forced himself to raise his assault rifle, but his hands were trembling so badly that he could barely keep the barrel steady. His heart was pounding in his chest, each beat a painful reminder of the fear and sorrow that gripped him. The faces of his friends flashed before his eyes, their lifeless bodies lying in the dirt, and for a moment, he felt as though he couldn't breathe.

Don's first few shots went wide, missing their targets by a mile. His vision blurred with tears, and every time he blinked, the image of the corpses resurfaced, more vivid and horrifying than before. It was as if the battlefield itself had become a twisted nightmare, each shadow hiding another fallen comrade, each gust of wind carrying the faint echo of a dying scream. He felt the weight of his own despair pressing down on him, his body heavy with grief and exhaustion. He knew he had to focus, had to push past the shock and terror, but his mind kept drifting back to the bloodstained ground and the bodies of those he had once called friends.

Gritting his teeth, Don forced himself to concentrate. He couldn't afford to be distracted, not now. He tried to steady his breathing, to ignore the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him, and aimed his rifle once more. His hands were still shaking, but he gripped the weapon tighter, willing himself to find some semblance of control. Slowly, his aim steadied, the sights aligning with his targets. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and squeezed the trigger.

The rifle kicked against his shoulder, and this time, his shots found their mark. A mole fell, then another, and with each successful hit, Don felt a flicker of something like confidence begin to stir within him. He focused on the rhythm of his breathing, the feel of the trigger beneath his finger, trying to drown out the chaos around him and the horror that still gnawed at his mind. With each shot, he felt a little more in control, the fear that had gripped him slowly giving way to a grim determination.

Don fired off rounds, reloaded, and fired again, his movements becoming more fluid, more automatic. He threw grenades into clusters of moles, each explosion sending a shockwave through the ground and a spray of earth and flesh into the air. The deafening booms drowned out the screams, the smell of gunpowder and smoke overwhelming the stench of death that hung over the battlefield. With each explosion, he felt a savage satisfaction, a desperate, almost primal urge to fight back against the tide of death that threatened to swallow him whole.

Above, the red-haired girl continued her deadly barrage, every arrow finding its mark with unerring precision. Each explosion she triggered tore through the enemy forces, sending moles flying and leaving smoldering craters in their wake. Her presence was a beacon in the chaos, a reminder that he wasn't alone in this fight. Don's fear began to recede, replaced by a fierce resolve. He would not let his comrades' deaths be in vain. He would fight with everything he had, for them, for himself, for the hope of something better.

As Don charged deeper into the battlefield, he spotted some of his comrades still alive but weaponless, huddled behind a makeshift barricade and pinned down by enemy assault. Without hesitation, he sprinted towards them, grabbing several guns he took from the warehouse and threw them towards his comrades. "Take these!" he shouted, his voice hoarse but carrying over the din of battle. He hurled the weapons towards them, and the soldiers caught them, their eyes lighting up with renewed hope. They joined the fight, their spirits lifted by Don's act of defiance, and together they pushed back against the oncoming tide of moles.

Don kept up his assault, firing his rifle and throwing grenades with a relentless ferocity. Every shot, every explosion was a testament to his determination, a defiance of the death and destruction that surrounded him. He fought not just for survival, but for the memory of his fallen friends, for the hope of proving himself at last. The initial shock and horror still lingered, a dull ache in the back of his mind, but it no longer controlled him. He had found his focus, his purpose, and with it, the strength to keep going.

Together, he and the red-haired girl began to turn the tide, their combined efforts wreaking havoc on the mole forces. The battlefield was a hellscape of smoke and fire, but amidst the chaos, Don felt a strange sense of clarity. He was no longer just a boy trying to prove himself to his father; he was a soldier, fighting for something greater than himself. And in that moment, despite the fear and the pain, he found a glimmer of hope.