Bloodshed – Chapter 2: Baptism of Fire
The whistle of shells screaming through the sky was enough to make a man think he could feel the world tear itself apart. King's ears rang as the ground beneath him shook, splinters of wood and stone raining down from the bombed-out walls.
He had fought before, but this—this was different. This was chaos given flesh, raw and unpredictable.
"Move up! Cover the left flank!" a sergeant shouted, but King barely registered the words. All he saw was smoke, fire, and the faces of men he had known yesterday, now twisted in terror or pain.
A boy—not much older than himself—screamed, clutching his chest where blood seeped through a uniform too big for him. King froze. His hands shook, and for a moment, he wanted to run, to leave the battlefield behind and never look back.
But there was no running. Not anymore.
He fired his rifle mechanically, each shot a hollow echo against the thunder of cannons. Each pull of the trigger carried weight beyond his age, a weight he hadn't signed up for. And with every scream, every body falling, every burning house, the question haunted him: If God exists, why is this allowed?
King saw a man trying to drag a wounded comrade behind a shattered wall. The man fell; his blood pooled into the mud, black and sticky. The soldier whispered something, some prayer, some plea. The world didn't answer.
King realized something then: the world never answered. God, if He existed, never answered. All that was left was action. And yet, action alone felt meaningless.
He remembered what he had thought back in the ruined village: God is cruel. If He exists, He owes an apology.
Now, seeing the chaos unfold, he understood the depth of it. War didn't just take life—it twisted it, poisoned it, burned it away until only bitterness remained. Innocence, hope, trust—they were devoured first, before the body even fell.
A shell exploded nearby, throwing him into a ditch. King lay there for a moment, ears ringing, chest heaving, mud filling his mouth. He tasted the battlefield. Iron, fire, ash, and despair.
When he rose, he saw more death. Friends, strangers, soldiers he had trained with, gone. And yet, the generals somewhere far away celebrated. The priests somewhere far away blessed. And above, if He existed, God watched.
King's chest tightened. Rage and grief intertwined into a single knot. He wanted to scream at the sky, to demand justice, to demand an explanation. But nothing came.
He pulled himself forward, inch by inch, over bodies and rubble. Each step was a question, each breath a challenge. If You exist, God… tell me why. Tell me why the world is like this. Tell me why the innocent must burn, why children must die, why men are monsters. If You are just, speak. If You are merciful, act. If not… at least let me understand.
But there was only silence.
By nightfall, the battlefield was littered with the dead. King counted them in his mind, not aloud. Children. Soldiers. Mothers. Fathers. Everyone, indistinguishable in death.
He collapsed against a wall, staring at the stars above. The moon was hidden behind smoke, behind ash, behind the ruin of everything. King felt small, a boy with a rifle in a world that had no place for him.
Yet he had survived.
And survival brought no comfort. Only the same question, louder than ever: If God exists, why? Why this cruelty?
King closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the day settle over him. The screams would haunt him. The blood would haunt him. The silence of God would haunt him.
And still, he would wake tomorrow, and he would march again. Because in a world like this, to stop moving was to die. And King… he was not ready to die. Not yet.