Paul stood up, his breathing still heavy.
"Hey, calm down… What’s wrong with you? Did you see a ghost?" Robert said with a small smile—trying to joke, though his voice trembled with worry.
Paul glared at Robert.
"No… Not a ghost. I heard a voice. T-the symbol… That symbol. It was calling my name. Like something inside it was trying to pull me in," he stammered.
Robert let out a long sigh, rubbing his face.
"Paul… You really need to sleep. You’ve been acting strange since yesterday. You’re just exhausted, that’s all."
"NO! I’m serious! You have to see it for yourself, the symbol—"
Robert quickly raised his hand to cut him off.
"Enough. You’re just tired. We’ll check it again tomorrow morning if you want. Right now, we need to rest."
Paul fell silent. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his eyes still wild, fixed on the symbol. Slowly, he turned back to Robert.
Robert patted Paul’s shoulder, then walked out of the kitchen.
"Come on, let’s get out of here before you really lose your mind."
Paul glanced once more at the symbol. He swallowed hard, then followed Robert out. As they stepped out, Paul kept looking back as if afraid something might appear behind him.
He closed the door slowly.
"Now go sleep on the bed. I’ll take the floor," Robert said quietly, placing a hand on Paul’s shoulder.
Paul wiped his face again with both hands, then took a deep breath.
"Yeah, you’re right. Maybe I’m just… tired," he said, forcing a faint laugh.
Paul moved to the bed, sat for a moment, and finally lay down slowly.
Robert watched him for a few seconds, then lay down on the floor, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.
In the middle of the night, Paul suddenly woke up. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, cold sweat trickling down his temples. He wiped his face and exhaled deeply. He looked around—Robert was still sleeping soundly on the floor.
Paul slowly rose from the bed, stepping carefully on the creaky wooden floor. He stepped outside to get some fresh air. Outside, the night in Stettin felt eerily quiet. A cold wind slipped through the tents and wooden houses.
Paul lit his cigarette. One drag made him feel a bit calmer; he tried to forget what had happened earlier.
He walked toward a large tree not far ahead.
Once there, he sat down, enjoying the night with his cigarette.
Suddenly—a soldier ran past Paul in a panic. His face was pale, his eyes wild.
"N-no, I don’t want to die!" the soldier screamed, his voice cracking.
Paul was shocked, turning toward the soldier who kept running aimlessly. He chased after him and grabbed his shirt.
"Hey! What’s wrong?!" Paul asked, confused.
"He… he… he’s not human…!" the soldier shouted—tearing himself free from Paul’s grip, then ran back into the camp.
"Paul…"
Paul immediately turned around—there was no one there.
The voice called his name again—it seemed to come from the big tree. He slowly walked closer.
Meanwhile, Robert woke up inside the house. His eyes swept over the bed—empty.
"Paul?" he called out groggily. No answer.
Robert quickly got up, grabbed his coat and weapon, then stepped outside. His eyes searched around—until he finally saw Paul heading toward the big tree.
"Paul!" Robert shouted, running closer.
Paul slowly turned around, his face pale.
"There’s… something inside that tree, Robert. I heard it again. That voice…," Paul whispered, his voice trembling.
Robert approached and slapped Paul’s shoulder hard.
"Enough! This isn’t the time! You need to sleep. We attack Frankfurt tomorrow. If you don’t rest, you’ll die before the battle even starts!"
Paul swallowed hard. His eyes were still blank, but slowly, he nodded. Robert led him back to the house.
"Now shut up and sleep. If I have to, I’ll stay awake until you’re truly asleep," Robert said firmly.
Paul didn’t answer. He just took a deep breath, stepped into the house, and collapsed onto the bed, still trembling. Robert sat on the floor, watching him until Paul’s breathing finally calmed down.
The next morning
Dawn hadn’t fully broken when the first screams tore through the camp. Robert woke up with a start, hearing frantic footsteps outside.
"Paul! Get up! Something’s happening!" Robert shouted, shaking Paul’s shoulder.
Paul immediately sat up, his eyes still filled with the fear from last night.
When they both stepped outside, a horrifying scene greeted them.
Several local villagers lay stiff on the ground—their eyes bulging, mouths agape, fingers clawing the grass as if trying to hold back unimaginable pain.
Not far away, several Swedish soldiers hung from the trees. Some knelt on the ground, their faces frozen like statues, neck veins bulging. Others were found having stabbed themselves in the stomach.
Robert instantly covered his mouth, stepping back. His eyes darted around wildly, his body shaking.
"What… what is happening here…?" he whispered, his voice almost gone.
Paul collapsed to his knees, his face pale. His hands trembled violently, his eyes blankly fixed on the corpses.
"This… this isn’t normal… something… something is hunting us," he choked out.
Other soldiers ran in panic. Some knelt and prayed, some desperately tried to cut down their hanging comrades, while others just sat, crying. Terror crawled into every corner of the camp.
In the midst of the chaos, George appeared, walking calmly. His military cloak fluttered lightly in the morning wind. His face showed no shock—only a cold, blank expression.
He climbed onto a large wooden crate, scanning the trembling soldiers.
"ALL SOLDIERS! SILENCE!" George shouted, his voice cutting through the cries and screams.
The cries and screams gradually subsided. Everyone turned to him, their faces full of fear.
George glared at them sharply. "Listen carefully! This… is a sudden nerve fever outbreak, which often strikes during winter in this region."
Everyone fell silent, glancing at each other.
"This disease can drive people insane, even to suicide. You think this is the first time? Absolutely not! This is the risk of war in foreign lands!" he continued, his voice calm and cold.
Robert stepped forward. "A disease…? But why only some, and why did they die so horribly?!" he shouted, his voice trembling.
George slowly turned to him. "Do you want to panic like them? Or do you want to stay alive and win?" he answered flatly.
He swept his gaze across the troops. "We don’t have time to be afraid. You’re here to fight, not to mourn your fate. Today, we march to Frankfurt an der Oder! Anyone who can’t handle it may leave now!"
No one dared to move. Some soldiers whispered, others lowered their heads with pale faces.
Robert stood frozen. His breathing was heavy, fists trembling. Paul turned to him, his eyes still brimming with tears.
"Robert… we’ve really gotten ourselves into something… something we don’t understand," he whispered shakily.
Around them, soldiers whispered fearfully, some tried to wake friends who had stiffened, some wept hugging their fallen comrades. But despite the terror, they slowly began gathering and preparing—some driven by fear of George, others simply because they had nowhere else to go.
The sky over Stettin grew brighter, but the cold refused to leave. The stench of blood and death still hung thick.
And so, the troops—confused and terrified—began to march toward Frankfurt an der Oder. Carrying with them a dark mystery yet to be revealed, and a terror that had only just begun to follow them.