Rage of Desperation

We pushed forward, our feet sinking into the mud with every step, the sound of battle roaring all around us. The ground seemed to heave beneath us, as though it, too, was caught in the chaos. The sky above, once a bright and untroubled expanse, was now nothing but a blanket of ash and smoke, swirling with the detritus of war. I could barely see past the thick fog of explosions, but the stench—gunpowder, blood, burning flesh—clung to the air, relentless.

Peter's hand clutched mine tightly as we moved, almost as though we were tethered together, our lives bound in the midst of this madness. His breath came in harsh gasps, a rhythm I tried to match. But every time I thought I had regained control of my breathing, another explosion would send the ground shaking beneath us, and my lungs would tighten again. It felt like we were on the edge of some precipice, teetering on the brink of losing ourselves.

We found ourselves behind a makeshift barricade, cobbled together from debris—wooden planks, chunks of stone, and whatever the soldiers had scavenged in a hurry. The soldiers around us were a blur of faces, all etched with the same fear that gnawed at my own chest. Some were crying out in pain, others shouting orders that no one had the time to listen to. But most simply kept firing, moving with mechanical efficiency, as though the terror had numbed them to everything but the next pull of the trigger.

There was no room for hesitation. There was no time to reflect.

A cry echoed from behind, and I spun around, only to see one of the soldiers—a young man who couldn't have been older than sixteen—fall, his legs shredded by shrapnel. His scream cut through me, its desperation sinking into my bones like a poison. Someone rushed to drag him to safety, but it was already too late. He was gone.

Peter's voice broke through the haze, sharp and insistent. "Hans! Stay focused!"

I nodded, forcing my attention back to the front. The Wilmenians were pushing closer, their lines thick with the kind of discipline we could never match. They had a cold, ruthless precision that we lacked. And they were getting closer with every passing second. Each step they took felt like a hammer, breaking down the walls of Baronia.

The command came down the line, low and fast, carried through the chaos: "Prepare for the second wave."

I turned to Peter, a cold knot of dread forming in my stomach. "How much longer can we last?" I didn't need an answer. I already knew.

He didn't answer either. There was nothing to say. Instead, he just gripped his rifle tighter and pulled me down next to him behind cover.

The second wave came swiftly—faster than the first. The Wilmenians didn't hesitate. They pressed forward with a ferocity that we couldn't match. I could see their figures now, silhouetted against the flames, marching in tight formations, their rifles raised high, their faces set in grim resolve. These weren't men anymore—they were a machine, moving in perfect synchronization.

We opened fire again, the rhythm of our MP40s blending into the madness. I emptied my clip quickly, but the Wilmenians kept coming. A few fell—some directly in my line of sight—but there were too many of them. The explosions of their grenades landed close enough to send us sprawling into the mud again, covering ourselves with our arms as if that could protect us from the hellstorm around us.

"Hans! Peter!" It was a voice calling over the din. I turned to see the young officer from earlier, blood smeared across his face, shouting at us to hold the line. "You hold here! You hold the damn line or we're all dead!"

The young officer's eyes were wide with panic, but he didn't flinch. He had the look of someone who had seen too much, but still refused to give in. Still, his orders felt empty, like they were being issued into a void. We were holding nothing. We weren't even holding onto hope anymore.

I turned back to Peter, my mouth dry. "What do we do?"

Peter didn't respond right away. His face was pale, his jaw clenched. I could see the same fear in his eyes, but also something else. It was a look of determination. He'd made up his mind already.

"We fight," he said, and though his voice was quiet, it felt like the only truth left in the world. "We fight until we can't anymore."

We fired again, over and over, our hands cramping around the triggers, our shoulders aching from the recoil. The Wilmenians advanced, their fire relentless, and for every shot we fired, it felt like two more enemies took their place. But we didn't stop. We couldn't.

Then, suddenly, the smoke cleared just enough for me to see a column of soldiers charging forward, too fast for us to react. They were just feet away, and I knew if they made it through, we wouldn't stand a chance. A new surge of terror gripped me, but it was swiftly replaced by anger. Anger that I was still here, fighting for a cause I didn't understand. Anger that they were taking everything from us.

I let out a roar, more animal than human, and fired until the gun in my hands jammed. The sound of it was almost comforting in the chaos—something to focus on, something solid in a world that no longer made sense.

"Move!" Peter shouted, and before I could process what he meant, he grabbed my arm and yanked me forward, away from our position, pulling me into the fray.

There was no plan anymore. There was no order. It was only survival. Peter's strength guided me through the madness, his presence the only constant I could hold onto. I followed his lead, moving blindly, knowing only that we had to keep going, no matter the cost.

We ran, our breath ragged, our feet slipping in the mud, the sounds of battle deafening as we found a new position. But there was no sense of safety, only more fighting, more death.

Hours—or was it days?—passed. Time blurred into an endless loop of fire and blood. Eventually, the screaming stopped, the gunfire died down, and I realized we weren't firing anymore. We couldn't.

I collapsed, my back against the cold stone of a nearby structure, Peter beside me. We both sat in silence, the weight of it all too much to bear.

The front had held—for now. But at what cost?

We were still here. But the war? The war was far from over. And somehow, we would have to find the strength to keep going.