The neighboring village welcomed us with a deathly silence. It felt as if war hadn't just passed through here, but as if Death itself had tripped and fallen over every doorstep. Every house stood like a charred skeleton, exhaling shadows and dread. Amidst this graveyard of memories, a young couple opened their door to us. The warmth in their eyes felt eerily artificial in the middle of this hell.
My gut was screaming. In times like these, inviting two armed strangers into your home with a smile is not an act of kindness—it's a trap. Silas felt it too. Without hesitation, in a voice raspy with the scent of whiskey and stale blood, he voiced his suspicions. The couple remained silent. Their silence was more terrifying than any answer could have been.
"John, get to the roof. Watch the perimeter," Silas commanded coldly.
The young man of the house suddenly blocked our path. "No, you can't go up there... it's... not ready."
Without a word, Silas leveled the muzzle of his musket under the boy's chin. The cold iron silenced him instantly. I saw death flickering in Silas's eyes. Left with no choice, I climbed to the attic.
In the cramped, dark space of the roof, I was left alone with the thoughts that were eating me alive. What am I? A soldier or a butcher? At that moment, I glanced through the small window, and my blood ran cold. Through the fog, five or six silhouettes were closing in on the house. They were armed. Their movements were steady and deliberate.
A trap. The young couple had lured us into a slaughterhouse. The cold steel of the two muskets in my hands felt like they were burning my palms. Below, I heard Silas prepping his own weapon. "What should I do?" the thought hammered against my skull. But there was no choice. If I didn't pull the trigger now, we wouldn't live to see the dawn. I fired. One, two, three... five men fell into the mud, one after another. The thunder of the shots shattered the village's silence.
Chaos erupted below. By the time I scrambled down, Silas had already subdued the couple, dragging them to an old tree in the yard and binding them tight. A half-burnt cigarette dangled from his lips. There was no trace of humanity left in his gaze. He had piled everything flammable—old rags, oil, dry wood—at the feet of the terrified pair.
"Uncle, stop! What are you doing? They were just..." I rushed toward him, desperate to intervene.
But Silas didn't listen. He spun around and slammed the heavy butt of his musket into my temple. The world spun. My vision blurred as I hit the dirt. I tried to speak, but my body refused to obey.
As my consciousness faded, one final image burned into my mind: Silas casually flicking the glowing ember of his cigarette into the pile. The flames roared to life instantly. The cold air of the war was no longer filled with the scent of slaughtered cattle, but with the bone-chilling screams of people burning alive and the stench of scorched flesh.
Silas wasn't a fool. He was a predator. They say fools are supposed to live the longest, but men like Silas won't stop until they've burned the whole world down with them.