Even here, there's room for light. I met a girl from a nearby village—she came with bread and herbs for the wounded. Eyes like lakes after rain, voice—a whisper of wind in the leaves. Magic in war is not just a weapon, but a key to something greater. Mana-stones are the hearts of the earth, full of primal life that we've subjugated to destruction. I watch the explosions and think: do we have the right to dispose of the world's gifts? Maybe we don't own magic, but it owns us?
Every day is a test of choice. To go into battle—a rebellion against death. To retreat—against honor. The enemy for us is not a shadow on the horizon, but people with their own hopes. To kill them is to kill a part of yourself.
War teaches strange wisdom: in the roar, you hear silence; in death, you see life. It's a mirror where you meet your true self. No pathos here, only bitter truth.
Flowers grow between graves—life breaks through the asphalt of war. Perhaps that's the meaning: not in victory or defeat, but in remaining human when the world goes mad.
Tomorrow is a new day. We'll attack the mines again, they'll respond with magic salvos. The routine will continue until someone makes the mistake we're all waiting for. For now—silence, stars overhead, and thoughts of a world where people don't kill each other over eight kilometers of cursed land.
Today I am a soldier holding a section of the front and seeking a place for hope in the chaos. Maybe that's victory—not to surrender, to keep something alive in the heart amid the great absurdity.
We stand here not just for Kazaria or against Kriver—for something inside ourselves. For the right to remain human. And while magic tears the skies and mines wait for victims, I seek answers in the starry sky, which is silent but knows more than all of us.