Chapter 14: Rearguard

"Damn it, I'm out of ammo!"

"Catch this one, buddy!"

The shouts rang out amid the thunder of gunfire and the shriek of bullets slicing through the air like a merciless rain of metal. The battle had only raged for a few minutes—yet for those caught in it, even ten seconds felt like an eternity.

The ground shook under the bursts of light artillery, the tremors pounding like a war drum against their chests.

The rearguard unit was being pounded relentlessly by Noirval's forces, who surged forward in waves that never seemed to break. Yet behind the hastily constructed defenses—torn sandbags, barbed wire barely strung into place, and half-dug trenches—Paul's men still stood. Shaken, bloodied, but not broken.

The rattle of machine guns filled the air, their sharp, metallic rhythm echoing between the trees and brush, turning the battlefield into a symphony of death. Soldiers reloaded with trembling hands, their faces streaked with sweat, mud, and the soot of gunpowder.

Paul crouched low behind a barricade, his eyes scanning the field with focused intensity. Wave after wave of Noirval infantry emerged from the mist, their silhouettes like starving ghosts eager to tear flesh.

But for every soldier that advanced, another fell. Bodies dropped one after another, crumpling like puppets cut from their strings, felled by bullets fired with a mix of discipline and desperate resolve.

"Hold the right flank! They're spreading!" shouted a sergeant from Platoon Two.

"I'm out of rounds! I need ammo now!"

"Hold on! Send the ammo crate from the middle line—don't let the front go dry!"

Ammo, bullets, and shouts flew from man to man. Among them, there was no more fear—only the grim knowledge that retreat wasn't an option. That every second they held the line bought time. Time that could save thousands behind them.

Paul ducked momentarily, drawing a deep breath between explosions. His ears rang, but his mind remained clear. He knew they couldn't hold forever. But as long as the last bullet hadn't been fired, as long as one man still stood, they had not lost.

Of course, Paul's company wasn't the only unit tasked with holding the rearguard. Multiple units had been merged into a makeshift regiment to protect the main force's withdrawal.

Paul's own company was positioned at the center of this improvised line, alongside three others.

Suddenly, through the chaos of battle, David—the radio operator—came crashing through brush and debris, his face pale and drenched in sweat. He nearly stumbled before reaching Paul, who remained crouched, eyes fixed on the blood-soaked field ahead.

"Captain!" David gasped. "Eighth Company on the southern flank is calling for support! They're completely pinned down—they won't hold much longer!"

Paul turned sharply. "Now!? We're barely holding our own here!"

"They say their defenses are about to break! If we don't help, they're finished within minutes!"

Paul hissed, clenching his fist. His mind raced, weighing options that all led to disaster. The main defensive line was already straining—diverting troops now could weaken their center fatally.

But abandoning the Eighth Company… would open the southern flank entirely.

"Damn it!" he growled. Then he shouted over the gunfire and chaos, "Hans!"

Like a hunting hound waiting for a signal, Hans emerged, caked in dust and blood, but eyes sharp as ever. He stood at Paul's side, wordless but ready.

"Take twenty men," Paul ordered, his tone steel. "Lead them to the south flank and reinforce the Eighth. Don't wait for another order—go!"

Without hesitation, Hans nodded. No complaints, no questions. He moved immediately, walking the line, tapping shoulders, calling out names. The soldiers he touched didn't ask why—they rose and followed without hesitation, as if they already understood.

Paul watched them leave, drawing a long, steady breath to anchor himself.

Hans wasn't a strategist. He'd even questioned the decision to split the army into two groups—proof that large-scale thinking wasn't his strength. But on the battlefield? In the hellfire of close-quarters chaos?

Hans was the best man they had.

He had lived long enough to know when to hold and when to strike. And now, the fate of the southern flank rested on his shoulders.

"ǃϞϾѮ₪ µȡѪϿ!"

"I don't know what you're babbling about, you filthy Republican! Die!"

Foreign curses and screams tangled in the cacophony of gunfire and choking smoke. The battlefield was madness. And though they had only lost twenty men, the impact was catastrophic—their line began to sag, gaps opening wide enough for Noirval troops to slip through.

A few of them made it—faces streaked with blood and dirt, eyes ablaze with hatred. But Paul's men were ready. Bayonets plunged into chests, guts, and throats. Blood sprayed. Screams pierced the sky. There was no room for panic. No time for mercy.

"Steady!" Paul bellowed over the chaos. "Keep up the fire! Don't let them get closer!"

His men, seasoned by countless battles, responded with unshakable discipline. Some reloaded, others shouted coordinates, and though some were wounded, none gave ground.

Paul knew—if this line broke and the fighting devolved into full-on melee, they were finished. Outnumbered and outmatched. But as long as they could maintain the kill zone, as long as their fingers could pull a trigger, they could endure.

He clenched his jaw, staring through the haze of rising smoke.

Time.

They just needed more time.

* * *

After what felt like an endless battle, the gunfire finally began to fade. The thunder of artillery no longer shook the earth, and the rattling of machine guns was slowly replaced by a suffocating silence. But Paul knew better—this wasn't the end. It was only a pause. Noirval's forces had likely realized the heavy casualties they had sustained and had chosen, at least for now, to pull back—perhaps to regroup, or to devise a new strategy.

All around him, the battlefield had transformed into a sea of ruin. Bullet casings littered the ground like frozen metal rain. Craters from explosions pockmarked the scorched earth, and streaks of blood marked where hand-to-hand combat had taken place. The once-dry soil had become thick, dark red mud—mixed with blood, dirt, and sweat.

A few soldiers still stood watch behind makeshift barricades, their eyes sharp as they scanned the horizon shrouded in smoke and the lingering haze of gunpowder. Others moved slowly now—not with the urgency of combat, but with the weighted exhaustion that clung to battered bodies. They repaired what little they could of their haphazard defenses—restacking sandbags, shifting wreckage to reinforce barricades, and stretching out barbed wire that had been torn loose in the chaos.

Elsewhere, soldiers with hollow eyes and trembling hands began clearing away the enemy dead that lay piled along the forward line. They dragged the stiffened corpses out of firing lanes—not out of disgust or pity, but out of necessity. The bodies were beginning to obstruct their view, their shots. No prayers were spoken. No final rites were given. Only the cold, mechanical efficiency of men long immersed in war.

Occasionally, low cries echoed from the rear—makeshift medical stations where the wounded were being tended to as best as possible. Some soldiers tore their uniforms to staunch bleeding wounds, others tried to calm comrades groaning in agony with bullets still buried in their flesh. The air was thick with the scent of blood, iron, and wet earth—a stench that clung to everything like a second skin.

Above them, the sky was beginning to turn gold. The sun hadn't fully set behind the distant hills, but the coppery light of dusk already washed over the terrain. That meant—they only had to hold on a little longer.

Paul stood atop a mound of scorched soil, his gaze sweeping across the ragged defensive line. Sweat rolled down his temple, but he remained still, eyes quietly analyzing, judging, and taking stock.

They had survived the first wave. But night had not yet fallen. And in war, the darkness often brought with it nightmares more cruel than any daylight could offer.

But for now—for one rare breath of peace—they lived. And that was enough.

"That was... exhausting," muttered Tom, Paul's young lieutenant, as he dropped to the ground behind a stack of sandbags. His breath came in shallow gasps, sweat pouring down his face, his eyes dull as if the weight of the battle still clung to his very bones.

Paul, standing not far from him with arms folded and eyes still fixed toward the front lines, nodded slowly. "Even so… I'd say we were lucky."

Tom glanced up, frowning. "Lucky? Seriously, Captain? We were nearly wiped out."

Paul gave a faint smile and eased himself down beside the trunk of a tree scarred by shrapnel. Dust clung to his shoulders, but his tone remained calm. "Yeah, lucky. Their artillery wasn't properly coordinated. Think about it—if they'd timed a full barrage with that infantry charge… I don't think we'd still be breathing."

Tom closed his eyes for a moment, then gave a slow nod. "Shit… you're right. Our lines could've been obliterated in the first ten minutes."

"I noticed their shelling was scattered," Paul continued, his voice low but precise—like a seasoned instructor outlining lessons of survival. "Some shots even landed within their own lines. The gaps between salvos were long. Too disorganized. Uncoordinated."

"Then yeah…" Tom murmured, more convinced now. He wiped his face with a filthy sleeve, trying to push away the grime and fatigue that seemed carved into his skin.

Paul nodded. "It looks like this whole attack was meant to be a shock offensive. A hasty counterstrike. They didn't have time to refine the plan, let alone synchronize artillery with infantry. They just pulled the emergency lever."

Tom was silent for a while. The evening wind stirred fine dust between them. From behind the line came the sounds of quiet labor—men moving bodies, reinforcing defenses, lighting torches for the night ahead.

"So... you're saying they were afraid we'd notice our mistake?" Tom finally asked.

Paul turned to him, the amber light of the setting sun reflecting in his eyes. "Exactly. They knew that if they waited any longer, Felsburg would close the gap between our two army groups. Once that happened, their window of opportunity would vanish. This attack… it was a gamble."

Tom gave a slow nod, now without question.

"And they almost won," Paul whispered, more to himself than to anyone else.

A heavy silence settled over them again. Not a silence of fatigue this time, but one of realization—that they had just weathered the first storm. That in this chaos, victory or defeat wasn't always decided by strength, but often by timing and the choices made in those fleeting moments.

And for now, those moments had favored them. For now.

* * *

Post-battle activity had finally quieted down. The soldiers, who had just been busy repairing trenches and evacuating the wounded, now returned to their designated positions. Some knelt behind sandbag stacks, others leaned against the husks of destroyed vehicles, and a few stood guard behind shattered trees—all of them aiming their rifles toward the frontline now shrouded in deepening shadows.

Their faces were weary, eyes red and swollen, yet none of them showed any sign of lowering their guard. Adrenaline had taken over their bodies—wiping away sleepiness, numbing pain, and squeezing out every last bit of strength. They no longer looked like ordinary men, but like predators waiting in silence for their prey. Their eyes glinted in the twilight, like lions concealed in tall grass.

The sky gradually shifted color. The sun dipped lower behind the hills, painting the sky in fading streaks of orange that quickly turned to charcoal gray. Shadows stretched across the ground, creeping over broken vehicles and lifeless bodies left where they had fallen. Darkness began to take hold—wrapping the battlefield in a suffocating shroud.

Yet Paul still hadn't received any word from the retreating main forces. No signal. No message. Only silence—and with that silence came the creeping unease that curled in his gut.

From afar, crickets began to sing—the chirping of nighttime insects clashing against the memory of chaos that had just passed. Clicks echoed as weapons were cocked, metal against metal. No one spoke. The soldiers remained still, hyper-focused on the darkness ahead of them, no longer men, but war machines programmed to endure.

"This silence is making me feel unea—"

The soldier never finished his sentence. A bullet sliced through the air, followed by the wet thud of blood spraying. He staggered and collapsed, the round having struck dead center in his forehead. His body fell limp, eyes still wide open in a frozen expression of shock.

"Enemy attack!"

Like a spark hitting dry tinder, the silence shattered instantly.

Gunfire erupted again, shaking the air. Orders and shouts split the darkness. Muzzle flashes flared like lightning in a storm. The world that had just gone quiet descended back into hell.

Paul stood, his heart thundering like war drums. Beyond the darkness, the enemy had returned—and this time, they were here to kill.

He crouched behind the half-destroyed trench wall, looking up as shots lit up the night. Muzzle flashes danced wildly in the dark—blinding, erratic, unrelenting.

His eyes narrowed, trying to pierce through the haze of smoke and dust hanging over the battlefield. His breath was heavy, not from exhaustion, but from an anger he could no longer suppress.

"David!" he shouted, voice rising above the chaos. "Still no word from the main force!?"

David turned toward him, the radio strapped to his back crackling with static. His face was drenched in sweat and dust. "Nothing, sir! No word! Communication's been down for thirty minutes!"

"Damn it!" Paul cursed, stomping the dirt.

He turned sharply, raising his overheated rifle, and unleashed round after round into the wave of Noirval soldiers pouring through the treeline. Teeth clenched, eyes burning, he fired as if each shot could purge the rage clawing inside him.

Night had now completely fallen, cloaking the battlefield in pitch-black shadows. But paradoxically, it wasn't dark. The muzzle flashes from both sides illuminated the battlefield brighter than the fading daylight ever could. Gunfire, grenades, and flares turned the bloodied ground into a terrifying dance of light and death.

Enemy silhouettes twisted and stumbled in the flashes, each moving figure becoming a target. Metal clanged. Screams rose. Chaos reigned.

And amid that chaos, Paul noticed something.

He paused, crouched behind a chunk of shattered stone. His brow furrowed.

Something felt wrong.

His ears—trained by years of war—began to pick up the irregularity.

The gunfire from Noirval's side had begun to thin out. It wasn't constant anymore. The relentless pressure was faltering. There were gaps between bursts. The tempo had broken. Even the small artillery barrages had dwindled. Fewer silhouettes charged through the haze.

Paul's eyes narrowed, scanning the horizon still cloaked in smoke.

"…Why are they slowing down?" he muttered.

Even amid the chaos, something had shifted. And Paul, hardened by countless battles, could feel it in his bones.

But was it a good sign... or a storm brewing behind the veil of night?

The question had barely formed when David came rushing back, his face pale as death.

"Sir! The southern flank… it's fallen! Completely collapsed! And the northern flank is on the verge of breaking too!"

"What!?" Paul's shout nearly drowned beneath the renewed sounds of gunfire.

In that instant, everything clicked into place.

That's why the attacks on the center had eased off. Noirval wasn't weakening. They were executing a classic, lethal maneuver: encirclement—crushing the army from both flanks.

Rather than throwing themselves at the reinforced center, they'd redirected their strength to the sides—punching through the army's more vulnerable wings.

It was quiet, coordinated, and devastatingly effective. The center was kept occupied, lulled into complacency with light skirmishes while the real assault targeted the outer edges. And now, with both flanks failing, the center was poised to collapse like a roof losing its pillars.

But the horror didn't stop there.

David, still panting, pushed the next words out:

"Recon units reported unidentified foreign soldiers in the southern flank—they're not wearing Noirval uniforms!"

Paul's eyes darkened.

"Aberia and Portoval." The words left his mouth not as a question, but as bitter confirmation.

And just like that, the nightmare solidified.

The Aberia Federation and the Portoval Confederacy—once distant threats—had officially entered the war. Not from the main front, but through the shattered southern line, slipping into the chaos left by Felsburg's strategic blunders.

With the Southern Army Group encircled and overwhelmed, the enemy now had an open path. The allied forces of Noirval, Aberia, and Portoval were free to converge—and the central sector, where Paul and other companies held out, stood exposed.

Then came the final blow.

Over the radio, a frantic voice from the right sector crackled through:

"The right flank has fallen! They're hitting us from behind—we're surrounded!"

Paul closed his eyes for a moment, as if bracing himself against the weight of it all.

With both flanks shattered, the center was now fully encircled. No retreat. No reinforcements. Only two choices remained: surrender... or die.

One by one, white flags began to rise. Soldiers dropped their weapons, hands raised, accepting the grim truth that continuing the fight would only lead to meaningless slaughter.

But not Paul's unit.

They held their ground.

Under a rain of bullets and fire, this single company kept fighting. Reloading. Bayonets at the ready. Fewer and fewer in number, they stood as the final line of defiance in the heart of the battlefield.

Then—finally—the radio crackled to life once more.

"This is Central Command… we've reached the green zone. Rearguard units are now authorized to retreat. I repeat—rear units may withdraw!"

Paul let out a dry, bitter laugh.

Retreat? He looked around. Fire to the right. Enemy troops to the left. The rear? Gone.

Where exactly were they supposed to retreat?

He bowed his head, clutching the radio like a relic from another world. And in a whisper only he could hear, he muttered:

"Thanks… but it's already too late."

They were under siege from all sides, trapped in a hopeless death pocket. Yet Paul's company stood their ground. Not because they didn't fear death, but because they knew there was no longer anywhere to run. Even if they surrendered, there were no guarantees they'd be spared.

Paul and his men were not ordinary soldiers. They were elite—trained not only to fight but to endure, to survive on the edge of oblivion. And they knew, as part of the invading force, as the ones who had defiled Noirval's soil with their boots and bullets, mercy would not come easily.

In this world, the laws of war were merely theoretical, a set of rules no one truly followed. There were no conventions, no international courts. And the term "war criminal" remained a vague whisper with no real consequence. Here, the victor wrote the rules.

And Paul? Paul had lived long enough within this broken system to understand: victory didn't always belong to the just.

He had not forgotten his past—his time in the Felsburg paramilitary. Back when orders weren't given to protect the homeland... but to raze it, to torture, to execute. He'd witnessed his comrades drag villagers from their homes like livestock, beat prisoners until their bones snapped, bleed them for confessions that likely never existed. He had never taken part—but he had never stopped it either.

And today… karma had come to collect its debt.

As Noirval's troops encircled their position,