In the cratered wasteland of the battlefield, where artillery had carved the earth into scars, a man lay sprawled in the dirt.
Exhausted beyond endurance, Kontrachenko had finally succumbed to sleep after two sleepless nights of relentless battle.
"Kontrachenko."
The voice snapped him awake. He scrambled to his feet, saluting instinctively.
"Commander-in-Chief," he croaked, his voice hoarse.
"What in God's name happened here?"
"We… we stopped them."
Kontrachenko's words came in broken fragments, his voice as fractured as his body. But those few words told General Kuropatkin all he needed to know. The battlefield, strewn with the corpses of tens of thousands of Japanese soldiers, spoke for itself.
"The pursuit…?"
"It's been ordered," Kuropatkin replied. "It won't take long."
The enemy had fled, leaving behind everything—ammunition, weapons, supplies. They were too broken to resist. The pursuit would seal their fate.
