As we wandered through the city, along Route 431, we passed by crumbling buildings and the corpses of soldiers from both sides. But the Revolutionary Army—our side—had suffered far more casualties. Those damned Republican dogs, backed by foreign powers, used money and influence to oppress their own people. While civilians were starving to death, they lived in comfort and luxury.
I continued walking, turning onto Ring Road 2 and heading toward Route 5. This area hadn't been completely destroyed—some remnants of life still clung to it. A few civilians remained, but they looked utterly exhausted and weighed down by sorrow. Many of them were surviving on just a single meal a day, if that. We lowered our heads in silent shame because, even now, the Revolutionary Army had yet to liberate the entire nation.
Suddenly, a young boy with dark hair and brown eyes ran out in front of us. He tried to shout, his voice trembling with urgency.
Boy: "The Republican bastards are hiding inside that building..."
Before he could finish, a sudden burst of machine gun fire tore through the air. The boy collapsed instantly, and several of my comrades fell right after him. Bones shattered, blood sprayed in all directions, flesh was torn apart. The staccato rhythm of machine gun fire echoed through the ruins. We could do nothing but dive into nearby concrete structures, seeking refuge from the deadly barrage—only for another volley to follow moments later.
Then, without a word, an old soldier in our group grabbed a grenade. In a moment of pure resolve, he rushed forward toward the building, even as bullets tore through his body. Somehow, despite his mortal wounds, he managed to hurl the grenade inside. A thunderous explosion followed, silencing the machine gun nest and clearing a path for us to advance.
When we entered the ruined building, a bleak scene unfolded before us. What remained of the interior had been turned into a temporary medical station for wounded Republican soldiers. One of my comrades raised his weapon, his face contorted with rage and grief. Tears welled up in his eyes. His AK-74 trembled in his hands, a symbol of barely restrained fury. I could feel it too—we all could.
But deep down, we knew these enemy soldiers were just like us: conscripts forced to follow orders, pointing guns at their fellow countrymen. They didn't ask for this war any more than we did. They were victims of the same broken system. And because of that, I knew they deserved forgiveness.
Miku Rem [Me]: "Put the gun down… they didn't do anything wrong."
The man's arms quivered as he lowered his weapon. Tears streamed from his eyes, mourning the comrades he had just lost. We didn't even know how many of our people had fallen during this campaign. It was one of the most important operations of the entire war. If we succeeded, we could sever the enemy's supply lines—and yet, we could not afford to rest, not even for a moment.
Suddenly, a thunderous roar split the skies. Their aircraft returned, dropping tons of bombs onto the city below, crushing hundreds of buildings into rubble. Civilians who had survived until now fled in every direction, desperately trying to avoid the onslaught. Then, without warning, another one of my comrades stepped on a landmine and was instantly torn apart. There was nothing we could do but remain where we were—with the wounded enemy soldiers—because ironically, this place was safer. Their planes wouldn't bomb their own troops.
We sat in silence, exchanging empty stares, too drained to speak. This war had already claimed too many lives. But independence—true freedom—was worth every sacrifice.
Some time passed. Then, unexpectedly, a woman around 40 years old appeared. Her blonde hair was matted and dirty, her clothes tattered and torn. Her pale, grimy skin showed the toll of survival. In her hands, she carried a pot. When she opened the lid, the rich aroma of boiled potatoes filled our noses. She smiled gently and spoke to us.
Woman: "Eat while it's hot, comrades... You've fought hard."
She ladled the soup into bowls, one by one, serving each of us. In wartime, the bond between soldiers and civilians was often forged in moments like this. It didn't take grand speeches—just a few kind words, a little food, or a simple gesture of support.
This revolution was not just a military campaign. It was the people's uprising. It was about ideals. It was about believing that one day, the revolution would succeed. We ate in silence. No one said a word. The chipped bowls cut our lips, but we didn't care. Just having food to eat was more than enough. We expected nothing more.