You wandered deeper into the forest, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows through the thick canopy overhead. The quiet rustle of leaves and the occasional chirp of birds were the only sounds accompanying you as you crouched near a bush, plucking ripe, red strawberries one by one. The air was crisp, the forest damp and earthy — peaceful, almost serene.

But then you heard it. A low groan. Followed by another.

You froze.

Carefully standing up, you turned toward the sound, your fingers still stained with berry juice. Just beyond the moss-covered trees, in a shallow clearing choked with fog, your eyes locked onto a sight that made your breath hitch.

Ten men. Soldiers — barely conscious, some clutching their sides, others sprawled motionless. Their uniforms were torn, smeared with blood, mud, and ash. The metallic scent of blood was thick in the air. They were lying in a mangled heap, groaning and gasping, their gear scattered around them like remnants of a brutal battle. One of them, a man with a jagged gash down his jaw, raised a shaking hand toward you.

“Pomogi…” he rasped, the word foreign, but the desperation unmistakable.

You rushed forward, kneeling beside him, your hands trembling as you looked over his injuries. His blood smeared your fingertips — this was real. You glanced around; their breaths were shallow, some barely clinging to life. One of them, younger than the rest, locked eyes with you and whispered hoarsely, "We didn’t think... anyone would come."