War: The Truth

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On the other side of the border, the mood was much happier. The general had achieved a sweeping victory, and the Daxia Kingdom had agreed to a ceasefire, at least for now. The air was filled with a sense of relief and triumph as soldiers celebrated the hard-won peace.

Among them, Jinhai was undoubtedly the happiest. With the prospect of returning home, and meeting his family, he immediately began packing his belongings. Unlike some young masters who took their time, indulging in the post-victory happiness and savoring every last moment of their military glory, Jinhai and the other villagers were far more practical. They packed their few possessions and boarded the rough, creaky carriages that had brought them to the front lines.

As Jinhai secured his bundle of clothes and a few trinkets, he couldn't help but chuckle at the difference between the young masters and the villagers. "Ah, those young masters," Le Ke who was next to Jinhai muttered. "They act like they have a whole parade waiting to welcome them back. Meanwhile, we're just hoping our chickens are still alive when we get home."

His mutters were heard by some which caused them to burst into laughter, but they all hummed in agreement. They used to complain about their lives all the time, but after experiencing this bloody war where they lost loved ones, witnessed gruesome deaths and so many tragedies, that all they wished was to get home safely and live a peaceful life with their families.

The ride home was far from comfortable, but after enduring the trials of war, the creaking, swaying carriages felt like a luxury to Jinhai and the other villagers. The luxury of living and going back to their families, a luxury many didn't get.

Jinhai sat near the back of the carriage; his small bundle of belongings tied securely by his side. He glanced around at the others. Some bore scars on their faces, some lost their limbs, and some we just mentally worn out.  He was one of those who were mentally worn out. 

When Jinhai first left for the battlefield, he had been full of fire and conviction, like so many of the other young men who marched with him. His heart burned with the desire for victory, for glory, and rewards that came with being to war. The elders had talked about the honor that came with being a soldier before they left, and in his youthful arrogance, he thought he could bear the weight of that title. War, to him, had seemed almost like a story from the old novels—men fighting bravely for justice, triumphing over their enemies with strength and skill.

But when he arrived at the front, he realized the stories had not prepared him for the raw, brutal truth. It wasn't grand duels between noble soldiers or righteous battles for the greater good. It was blood and mud and screams that pierced one's heart. The stench of death lingered in the air, sharp and pungent, mingling with the smell of sweat and fear. Bodies piled up, and the cries of the wounded echoed endlessly, creating a haunting picture.

And then came the moment that shattered him.

A boy—a boy no older than his youngest brother—came charging at him. Jinhai could see the fear in the boy's eyes, could see how he hesitated even as he raised his weapon. But in that split second, instinct and training overpowered hesitation. It was either home or the boy, Jinhai swung his sword.

He didn't even realize what he had done until it was over. The boy fell, the light in his eyes fading almost instantly, his body crumpling to the ground like a broken doll. Blood pooled beneath him, seeping into the earth, as the noise of the battle continued around them. Jinhai stood there, staring down at the boy, his hands trembling violently. His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, he couldn't move. He couldn't think.

That night, after the battle had finally subsided and the dead were left scattered across the battlefield like discarded shells, Jinhai lay on the hard, cold dirt. His body ached, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the hollow, ache in his chest. He stared up at the night sky, with tears in his eyes. He had never felt so small, so utterly insignificant.

Tears, unbidden and unstoppable, welled in his eyes and spilled down his cheeks. He tried to choke them back at first, tried to tell himself that this was war, that this was what he had signed up for. But the weight of the boy's lifeless eyes followed him, burned into his memory. His chest heaved, and the sobs came. They came like a flood, shaking his whole body as he cried into the silence of the night.

"Heavens, forgive me," he whispered, his voice cracking as he pressed his fists into the dirt. "Forgive me... please forgive me..." The words tumbled out, broken and desperate, but no matter how many times he begged for forgiveness, the boy's face remained in his mind. Jinhai prayed for the boy's soul to find peace, for his spirit to be taken somewhere far away from the violence of this world. But even as he prayed, Jinhai knew that no amount of repentance would erase the blood on his hands.

For three nights, the boy haunted him. It was then that he settled with himself the true reality of war.

So he no longer fought for glory, for there is no glory in death—only cold, indifferent finality. Glory, he realized, was a distant dream, a romantic notion sold to those too young to understand the cost. In its place came the bitter truth: war was about survival, plain and simple. His survival, and the survival of his family, who waited for him with every breath, praying he would return whole. Half a year into the blood-soaked battlefield, the sword in Jinhai's hand no longer trembled. The first time he killed, it felt as though his soul had been cut along with his enemy. But now, his hands were steady, almost numb. The blood that once felt like a weight on his conscience had become routine, something that washed off with the dirt at the end of the day. The killing that had once haunted his nights had been reduced from a sin to nothing more than a job—a grim task that he performed with cold efficiency.

But even as his heart hardened, a small part of the old Jinhai still clung on, faint but alive. He didn't fight for glory anymore—there was no glory in war. What he wanted was to survive, to make it back home to the warmth of family, far from the stench of blood. The battlefield didn't hold any meaning for him beyond that. Unlike the young masters who found a twisted pride in how many lives they'd taken, who seemed to revel in the chaos, Jinhai longed for something simpler—a life without war.

He had watched those young nobles talk about their kills with unsettling smiles, as though they were discussing some grand achievement. They seemed to thrive on it, as if death was just another mark of their success. To them, stepping on others—whether in war or in life—was normal. Killing had become their way of proving themselves.

But Jinhai couldn't see it that way. He didn't want to. Every life he took weighed on him, even if he didn't let it show. He'd learned to push those feelings aside, at least long enough to survive, but deep down, he still wanted to be more than just a soldier. He wanted to come back home as the person he used to be—a brother, a son—someone who could look his family in the eyes without guilt.

Each day on the battlefield, he wondered if he was losing more of himself. Was he becoming like those young masters? Would there come a day when the killing wouldn't bother him at all? The thought scared him. He didn't want to lose that part of himself that still remembered what it meant to be human.

Every time he picked up his sword, he reminded himself why he was really fighting. It wasn't for honor or the praise of his commanders. It was for his family, for the quiet life he dreamed of returning to. He just wanted to sit at the family table again, hear his sister laugh, hold his children, and take care of his wife.




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