The Invasion Of Eurasian

Krichtenberg Berlina, Capital of the Oceania Federation. Early morning, February 24, 2026

In the northern regions, dawn arrives early. As soon as the bombers withdrew from the city, the warm rays of the morning sun began to appear in the east. In the stillness of that early morning, thick columns of black smoke rose from Pankortz and Weissensezft districts. With low-hanging clouds blanketing the sky, it was difficult to distinguish the faint glow of dawn from the blazing fires illuminating a Krichtenberg Berlin devastated beyond recognition. As the smoke slowly dissipated over the ruins, the most heavily bombed city in Oceania loomed in eerie desolation. The entire city was blackened by ash, scarred with thousands of gaping craters, and dotted with twisted columns from collapsed buildings. Wooden coffins and body bags lay strewn across the streets. Blood stained the ground, painting the sky in a crimson hue.

All residential areas had been completely wiped out. In the heart of the capital, an entire district had been erased—nothing remained. What were once grand avenues and bustling streets had turned into rugged paths winding through mountains of rubble, shattered glass, and broken stone. Everywhere, buildings stood hollow, roofless and windowless, their gutted interiors staring blankly at the sky. After the assault, a rain of ash settled over the ruins, coating the wasteland. In the valleys of brick and twisted steel, dust billowed endlessly, swirling along the remnants of the A1 Boulevard, where once-famous trees now stood bare, their withered shoots clinging weakly to lifeless branches.

A few banks, libraries, and high-end shops along this renowned boulevard remained intact. But at the western end of the street, Krichtenberg's most famous landmark—the Branderkow Gate, standing as tall as an eight-story building—remained upright on its twelve colossal Dorickz columns, though pockmarked with scars from shrapnel. At the grand Reichtower building, the Parliament's meeting hall, six pillars stood on the ruined rooftop above the entrance, overlooking a sea of rubble that threatened to swallow it whole. And above them, in bold black letters, a phrase remained visible: "For the People of Oceania!"

Somewhere south of the city, Bemeroth Base—the military command center responsible for orchestrating the counterattack—had been completely leveled. The train stations that transported soldiers to the frontlines had been reduced to barren wastelands of ruin. Tens of thousands of fresh recruits had been wiped out before they could even witness the battlefield, the loss of manpower reaching catastrophic levels. The hospitals struggled not only to withstand relentless bombardments but also to accommodate hundreds of mangled corpses. Refugee deaths had become so rampant that handling the bodies was an impossible task. Reinforcements barely arrived before they were immediately thrown into the battlefield, perishing in droves. Food and ammunition were running low. It seemed as if despair and death itself had gathered here, converging upon this very place.

"Everyone, let's go! Hurry up! We don't have much time! Those savages could be sneaking up on us right now!"—a loud voice echoed through the bomb shelter.

Under the dim glow of the remaining lights, I, along with my comrades, slowly emerged from the bunker after the enemy's shelling had ceased. All that remained was the shattered ruins of a once-mighty empire. Corpses littered the streets, blood pooling in the cracks. The blaring of alarm sirens drowned out the desperate cries for help and the wailing of those mourning their loved ones. Faced with this apocalyptic scene, we—young, inexperienced soldiers—stood frozen in horror, our faces drained of color. Then, the first terrified screams broke the silence.

"Dear God… this is hell."

"Blood… there's so much blood!"

Everyone stood in a daze, gripped by fear and despair as they looked upon their fallen brothers, crushed and obliterated by the enemy's relentless assault. I stood there, paralyzed, like a man who had lost his soul. It wasn't until a firefighter called out from a distance that I snapped back to reality.

He looked absolutely wretched—his tattered uniform soaked in blood and mud. His skin was rough and leathery, bruises and rot creeping over his body like dark patches of decay. In a hoarse voice, he urged us forward:

"Hey! You there! Get over here and give us a hand! I'm about to collapse! Damn those Eurasian bastards!"

I and a few other soldiers rushed toward him. A 14-year-old refugee boy was pinned under a massive slab of concrete, blood gushing from his wounds. I gritted my teeth and grabbed hold of the rock, using every ounce of strength to lift it. My arms screamed in agony, my muscles feeling as though they were tearing apart. I clenched my jaw so hard I thought my teeth would crack, letting out a strangled scream of pain. With great difficulty, we finally managed to free the boy—but it was too late.

He had died before we could save him.

His body grew cold, covered in bruises and deep gashes. His flesh was mangled beyond recognition. I sat there in shock, drowning in sheer disbelief. Everything was madness. Everything was chaos. Had war truly turned this place into such a nightmare? It was terrifying beyond words.

Standing atop a pile of rubble, an old, withered officer struggled to finish delivering his half-written propaganda speech. But it seemed that no one cared to listen anymore. We were all too exhausted, too numb from the constant bombardments that rained down on us day and night.

"Brothers-in-arms! The barbaric Eurasian horde is preparing for another assault on the city! All supply lines have been cut off, and only 50,000 of us remain fit for battle, while the enemy numbers over 200,000! But despite the overwhelming odds, I urge each and every one of you to stand your ground! We must drive them out of this city and seize our final victory!"

With that, he slowly stepped away into a dark alley and, without hesitation, pulled a pistol from his coat and blew his brains out—freeing himself from this living hell.

A single gunshot rang through the air, marking the end of a fleeting life.

Two guards swiftly carried his body away to be burned. Then, without a word, they turned their attention to me. They were brutal and merciless, grabbing me by the collar and tossing me into the marching ranks like nothing more than a worthless ragdoll. They didn't even spare me a glance, spitting curses as they shoved me forward.

"Get the hell out of my sight, you little runt! Go to hell already!"

I stumbled and crashed into a soldier, sending both of us sprawling onto the ground. Mud and dirt smeared all over our clothes. Alarmed, I quickly got up and reached out to help the other person, my voice flustered as I spoke:

"I'm... I'm sorry! Are you okay? Let me help you up. I didn't mean to bump into you."

As I looked at the badge pinned to the soldier's chest, I realized that she was a sharpshooter. She was quite short compared to us, only around 1.69 meters tall. Her platinum-colored hair was neatly tied back, and her delicate face was framed by deep blue eyes—so profound, so mysterious, like an entire ocean was hidden within them. I found myself unconsciously drawn in.

The unfamiliar girl stood there, staring at me intently, as if she had just recognized something. I, too, felt that she seemed oddly familiar, like we had met before. Strange. After what seemed like a moment of recollection, she finally responded:

"It's fine, I can handle myself. But who are you? I just saw those officers beating you up—looked brutal." She gave a wry smile as she asked about me.

I softened my voice and replied:

"I'm Klaus Polskarov, a member of the 92nd Platoon of the 7th Guard Corps. But… they're all gone now. I'm the only survivor left. Nice to meet you."

"Ilaina Ilytasivich Kilova. A pleasure to meet you."

Ilaina simply introduced herself before asking:

"You're Eurasian too, aren't you?"

"Only half. My father was Eurasian, but my mother was from Oceania."

After talking for a while, Ilaina and I realized that we had many things in common. There was even an odd sense of familiarity, as if we were old friends. I learned that she was a Eurasian sniper who had deserted to Oceania after realizing the senselessness of this war.

Just as we were getting to know each other, a high-ranking officer—likely a platoon leader—strode up to us and barked:

"What the hell are you two doing? Move it! The damned Eurasians have breached the outskirts, why are you still standing around?!"

After speaking, he gave us a meaningful glance, the corner of his mouth curling ever so slightly.

"You must be the new recruit, huh? Welcome to hell."

I helped Ilaina up, and together we hurried to catch up with our new platoon.

As we passed by No. 73 Neistalyat Street, I caught sight of the once-beautiful little palace that had served as the official residence of Oceania's former prime ministers—now completely burned out from the inside. This palace had once been described as a miniature paradise. But now, its intricate architecture, magnificent ornaments, and grand fountain adorned with statues of sea goddesses lay in ruins. The twin statues of the virgin goddesses Rhinert, perched on the roof, were the least damaged, though they were still riddled with cracks, their heads missing.

Just a block away, the No. 77 building remained relatively intact, with only minor damage. Piles of bricks surrounded the U-shaped, three-story structure. The ochre-yellow paint on its exterior had peeled in many places, and the golden eagles with cross-patterned talons mounted on the gates were scratched and battered, robbing them of their former majesty.

Above the grand protruding balcony, a frenzied speech had once been broadcast for the whole world to hear. The Reichskanz—the office of Oceania's Prime Minister—still stood. Beyond Kurfürst, the Fifth Avenue of Krichtenberg, the mangled remains of what was once the resplendent Memorial Cathedral lay scattered.

As we marched toward the fatal trenches encircling the capital, a visible sense of unease clouded everyone's faces. The desolate landscape unfolded with each step forward. The vast land, heavy with water, stretched under the gloomy hues of dawn. Puddles and crater-like depressions scarred the uneven road, their surfaces rippling under the early morning breeze. Traces left by soldiers' boots and convoys from the previous night carved paths through the now-barren fields, where bomb craters—some still filled with water—glistened like steel rails under the pale light.

Mud piles stood here and there, broken stakes protruding from the ground. Scattered X-shaped barricades, tangled coils of barbed wire, and waterlogged patches of earth made the terrain look like a worn-out fabric, torn and uneven. Though it wasn't raining, everything was soaked—dripping, saturated, as if submerged. Even the pale daylight seemed to be dissolving into the dampness.

"So disgusting… it's all so filthy and slimy," Ilaina muttered, furrowing her delicate brows in disgust.

I couldn't blame her—after all, she was still a girl.

I reached out my hand to her and said, "Come on, Ilaina. Let me help you down."

I slowly jumped down into the trench and gently helped Ilaina down. Damn it! The moment I saw the scene below, my stomach churned. Suppressing the nausea, I forced myself to move forward. The foul stench of mud clung tightly to our leather boots, making every step difficult. Aside from the sickening smell of blood and decaying corpses, we also bore witness to the most brutal and deadly clashes happening here. I gritted my teeth, trying to shake the water out of my boots, but it was useless—I had no choice but to let it soak into my skin.

Ilaina turned to me and said,"Thanks. This place really is as bad as they say."

Taking out her sniper rifle, she skillfully set it on a mount, aiming forward. I didn't have time to idle either—I quickly checked my Mark 18 rifle. The others did the same. Some even took the opportunity to get to know one another since all the original members of this unit had been killed. In reality, we were just a chaotic mix of replacements thrown together.

"Ilaina, have you killed any Eurasian soldiers since you enlisted?"

"Not yet. This is actually my first real battle. Normally, I just stay at a distance, learning how to provide support fire, not shooting at close range like this. What about you?"

"We're the same. I haven't even finished my training. All my skills come from video games." – I shrugged.

Ilaina's gaze lingered on me for a few seconds, as if trying to gauge whether I was being serious. Then, she turned back to adjust her rifle and asked:"Then why did they send you to such a deadly battlefield? Aren't soldiers supposed to be properly trained before deployment?"

"No. Honestly, we only just learned how to use guns—barely covered the basics. The elite soldiers are all dead. Now they're just throwing in reserve volunteers—"

Before I could finish my sentence, the distant roar of aircraft engines suddenly filled the air. Within seconds, a Su-27 Flanker with a red star painted on its fuselage streaked past above us. It was massive, almost blocking out the sky, and in a flash, it disappeared at supersonic speed.

Then I saw them—enemy warplanes zooming overhead at terrifying speeds. Suddenly, they released a rain of death—tons of bombs falling from the sky.

In a single heartbeat, the truck carrying reinforcements behind us exploded into a thousand fragments.

Panic surged through me. Without thinking, I grabbed Ilaina and pulled her down, shielding her from the flying debris.

Rocks and dirt rained down like a storm, some of them stained with blood. A massive fireball erupted behind us, followed by thick, black smoke. I held Ilaina tightly against me, unmoving. The enemy's bombardment roared like a monstrous storm, drowning out the screams of agony, the cries of the wounded, and the desperate pleas for help. Our comrades were being shredded by shrapnel, torn apart by explosions, or crushed under collapsing debris.

Amid the chaos, someone's voice rang out:

"TAKE COVER! IT'S A STRIKE FIGHTER!"

Another round of bombs dropped.

It felt as if the air itself was sucked away. The acrid stench of smoke and blood hit my nose like a punch.

Ilaina coughed violently beside me, struggling to breathe. She instinctively started to stand up, but just then, countless phosphorus bombs came raining down.

She froze, unable to react in time to the impending disaster.

My heart nearly stopped. My pupils shrank.

"ILAINA! GET DOWN!"

On pure instinct, I lunged forward and wrapped my arms around her, taking three large strides to pull both of us into a corner of the trench.

An instant later, the ground erupted. The explosion roared like a beast tearing the sky apart.

Searing heat washed over me. Something sliced across my arm, sending a sharp jolt of pain through my body. But I did nothing except hold Ilaina even tighter, shielding her with my own body. I felt her small hands clutch my uniform tightly, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

The shelling didn't stop. My entire body tensed like a drawn bowstring. Sweat trickled down my face. I squeezed my eyes shut, my arms instinctively tightening around Ilaina.

I didn't know why I was so desperate to protect her, why my emotions toward her felt so strange. But in a moment like this, I didn't have time to think about it. I shoved those thoughts to the back of my mind.

Please, God—just let us survive this.

The two of us remained locked in each other's arms until the bombing finally ceased.

When the deafening chaos faded into eerie silence, I collapsed onto the ground, exhausted. My breath came in short, frantic gasps, my body trembling from the experience of nearly dying. The suffocating fear still clung to the air.

Realizing that Ilaina wasn't moving, I gritted my teeth and used what little strength I had left to shake her gently.

"Ilaina. Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

Her dazed blue eyes slowly regained focus as she stared at my face. A flicker of alarm passed through her gaze before she snapped back to reality and said:

"Klaus! You look awful—you're burned all over. Come on, we need to get out of here. It's too chaotic."

I pressed a hand against my bleeding arm, mumbling a half-hearted response as blood continued to drip down.

Ilaina helped me through the wreckage of the trench. Around us, others were frantically trying to patch up the gaping holes that had been blasted into the front line. The ground was soaked with muddy water, pooling in craters left by bombs.

Just then, a siren blared—the signal of another incoming barrage.

"TAKE COVER! IT'S 155MM ARTILLERY!"

A shell suddenly crashed into the trench right in front of us, exploding upon impact.

The blast sent everything flying—dirt, debris, and human bodies alike.

Our comrades were thrown into the air, their bodies torn apart, limbs and flesh raining down in a gruesome spectacle. Blood splattered onto my face, but I didn't even have the energy to wipe it away.

All we could do was stand there, helpless, as we watched them be obliterated.

This was war.

This was its brutal, merciless reality.

Even though I knew how horrific the battlefield was, my stomach still churned with nausea. My face turned deathly pale. I just wanted to get used to this quickly—otherwise, I wouldn't die from bullets or bombs, but from sheer horror.

When the dust settled, the ground beneath us was unrecognizable. A crater filled with flesh and blood lay before us, the remains of fallen soldiers now indistinguishable from the dirt.

The only things left to mark their existence were their tattered uniforms and shattered helmets.

Reaching a relatively intact section of the trench, Ilaina gently lowered me down to rest.

She swept her sweat-soaked platinum hair back, her blue eyes softening like a calm lake in the wind. Looking at me, she said:

"Stay here and rest. I'll go find medical supplies."

Suddenly, I felt like I was nothing but a burden to her.

"You don't have to worry about me. Just leave me here."

She frowned, clearly not agreeing.

"No. I won't let you die here. Wait for me."