Shin Kailun sat like a statue, unmoving, even as the infected elephant continued its grotesque feast just meters away.
Every crunch—every snap of bone and sinew—was a dagger in his chest.
He forced himself to look.
He made himself remember every face, every voice, every laugh of the men who now lay in pieces across the cracked concrete.
He would not forget them.
He would carry them in his blood.
The golden hue of the setting sun poured through the broken trees and twisted metal, casting a warm glow over a nightmare. Shadows stretched long and slow as dusk settled.
It would be night soon.
That terrified him more than anything.
His eyes flicked to the two surviving soldiers beside him.
One had blood trickling down the side of his head, his lips dry, his mouth mumbling silent prayers to no god that would come. The other sat crumpled, staring ahead with a hollow gaze, like a child too shocked to cry. They looked like they had already given up.
And maybe they had.
