You march across the battlefield with Jurji and a few dozen weary soldiers, the acrid smoke from distant fires weaving into the hues of the darkening sky. The air hangs heavy with the stench of charred earth and death.

To your side, a mass grave yawns open, a pit of mangled bodies—friend and foe indistinguishable in their final rest. Jurji walks beside you, his steps faltering as his wide, terror-stricken eyes dart between the broken remains strewn across the trenches. He lingers too long on the sight, his face pale and trembling.

You refuse to look, fixing your gaze forward, every step a test of will. The crunch of boots on bloodied soil feels deafening, a cruel rhythm that drowns out the murmurs of the men behind you. Still, you press on, even as the weight of the scene presses down on your chest like the smoke choking the sky.