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Chapter 6 - chapter 4: the cost of holding

Diary Entry – October 10, 1919

I used to count the days to my birthday like it was something sacred — a celebration, a gift, maybe a day off from chores. Now it's just a number. A marker that I'm still alive. Seventeen soon. Some people don't even make it past sixteen down here.

I've stopped expecting cake, or music, or anything close to joy. If I'm lucky, I'll have time to clean my rifle, change my boots, and maybe sleep six hours without hearing mortars overhead. That'd be a birthday.

The squad says I'm different now. That I've hardened. Maybe I have. I'm not the kid who left Yakutsk anymore — that boy's buried under a city of rubble, or maybe under a dozen foxholes we've held and lost.

We're holding again. That's the order. Another checkpoint. Another tunnel mouth. Another damned stretch of rock the brass says we have to keep, or the front will collapse like all the others.

I know what that means. It means men will die, and maybe I will too. I've seen enough to know that holding doesn't mean surviving — just slowing the bleeding.

Still, I write this because part of me wants to believe that seventeen will mean something. That maybe, just maybe, I'll still be here when it comes.

– Joseph Aslanov,Soldat, Royal NationCombat Deployment #8

Forward Briefing Post – Tunnel Mouth Z-19, Royal Nation Territory

Dust clung to the stagnant air as the squad gathered in a semi-circle around the briefing table, lit dimly by a flickering lantern. Maps were spread out—creased, torn, watermarked by months of sweat and blood. Lines drawn in red ink veined the paper like arteries, converging at one intersection.

"Tunnel 41D and Tunnel 42A have both collapsed or been taken," said the Officer, his voice brittle and without preamble. He tapped a circled position on the map. "This choke point here—41E—is all we've got left connecting to the Renewal artery. If we lose this, the entire eastern line falls back three kilometers. That includes medical, logistics, and civilian shelter access."

Joseph exchanged glances with Luka, who gave a slow nod. They'd seen collapses before. Watching one line go down was hell. Watching an entire flank bleed out? That would be worse.

"Your squad will be reinforcing Sector E-Delta. Dugout construction is priority one. Once fortified, you'll maintain twenty-four-hour recon sweeps of the adjoining tunnel spines — 41B, 41F, and the minor shafts off 39N. Expect Empire scouts. They know what's at stake just as well as we do."

"And if we're overrun?" asked Goran, arms crossed.

"Hold as long as you can. If fallback's called, it'll be to 39N—but make no mistake. We lose this position, we lose Renewal's outer defense. Do your part."

The Officer turned away without waiting for salutes. Briefings were getting shorter. So were tempers.

The walls breathed damp rot. The air tasted like copper and coal dust.

"Here," Joseph muttered, jamming a piton into a natural crack in the tunnel wall and looping cord through it to rig up another support beam. The makeshift dugout was coming together — stacked sandbags, timber struts scavenged from a collapsed freight route, and cloth dividers to fake privacy.

Mina worked silently near the entrance, hammering scrap metal into a folding barricade. Goran had taken first watch and was scouting ahead, light flickering somewhere deeper in the shaft. Luka sat hunched over a heat tin, warming a dented can of ration stew.

"Feels like home," Luka grunted, sarcasm dulled by fatigue.

Joseph sat across from him, tugging his coat tighter.

"You think they'll come tonight?" Luka asked.

"They always do," Joseph replied.

The squad had long since stopped asking if the Empire would attack. The question was when, and whether they'd be ready.

Mina dropped down next to them and pulled her hood back. "I say two days. They'll want us to dig in before they test us."

Joseph exhaled slowly. "Two days, then."

He didn't say it out loud, but he hoped they'd last longer than that.

The stale air of the dugout had grown still — unnaturally so.

Joseph was on second watch, crouched near the narrow shaft that fed into Tunnel 41B. His carbine rested across his lap, boots coated in damp silt. Every breath echoed louder than it should have, as if the walls were holding their breath with him.

Goran returned from patrol, brow soaked in sweat.

"Nothing," he muttered. "Not even movement. No sounds. It's—dead quiet."

Joseph frowned. "You check the pressure vents?"

"Three of them," Goran said, kneeling beside him. "All clogged. Like something jammed them from the inside."

Before Joseph could respond, static crackled from the field radio at the rear of the dugout — a short sputter, then silence.

Luka tapped it. "That was Sector F. They're not due to check in yet."

Mina stiffened. "They wouldn't break protocol without reason."

Joseph looked down the shaft again. It stretched for maybe fifty meters before curving out of sight. The shadows at the bend seemed darker than usual, like they were waiting.

He stood. "We need to check 41B."

Goran raised an eyebrow. "That's the secondary breach. They'd be fools to come through there."

"They've done worse," Mina said, already picking up her rifle. "Remember Drek's Point."

They did.

Luka flicked off the field lamp. Darkness wrapped around them instantly.

Their boots padded silently over packed dirt. Water dripped from overhead, rhythmic, like a clock ticking down. The tunnel narrowed as they advanced — barely wide enough to walk two abreast.

Suddenly, Goran froze.

Joseph saw it too.

A thin wire, glinting in the pale light of a headlamp. Barely visible. Taut and sharp — a tripwire.

Luka knelt beside it, following its path to a jagged mine embedded into the wall.

"Booby trap," he whispered. "Empire work."

Joseph scanned ahead with his scope.

In the far distance — just past the bend — he saw it: a single glint of metal. A helmet. Motionless. Watching.

"Contact," Joseph muttered.

But the helmet didn't move.

Then another glint. Then another.

Not one scout.

An entire ambush line — waiting.

And they were already here.

The moment Joseph whispered "Contact," the tunnel erupted.

Muzzle flashes flared from the shadows ahead like fireflies in a storm. Screaming rounds ricocheted off support beams. The tight corridor became a thunderclap of gunfire and shouting. Goran fired blind into the darkness, cursing under his breath. Luka dropped flat, dragging Mina back as a slug pinged off her helmet.

"Fall back!" someone shouted — but Joseph grabbed Goran's shoulder.

"No—listen! They're bottlenecked at the bend!"

Joseph's mind worked faster than fear could root him. He ducked behind a collapsed beam and studied the terrain.

"Their line's wide but their backs are to hard tunnel. They can't flank, and they've got no cover. If we can draw them into 41C junction—"

"That's a kill box," Mina said, eyes lighting up.

"Exactly. Luka, lay the trip mines. Goran, cover fire. I'll bait them in."

"What? No—" Luka started.

But Joseph was already moving.

Joseph bolted down the tunnel's flank route — a collapsed ventilation shaft that wrapped back to the corridor above the enemy. He kicked over debris and shouted, "They're flanking left!"

The Golden Empire troops heard him. Movement rippled through their line as they shifted to intercept.

A moment later, Joseph dropped a smoke charge and slid down a gravel slope into the secondary tunnel — just ahead of their reaction force.

Boom-boom-boom.

The mines Luka planted lit up the narrow trench like lightning in a grave. Screams followed. Dirt and blood sprayed the walls. Empire soldiers stumbled forward blindly into a crossfire.

Mina was already in position with her repeater. Goran laid down suppressing fire, keeping the enemy pinned. Joseph popped up behind an overturned mining crate and picked off those trying to retreat.

Within seconds, the tunnel fell silent again.

The stench of gas, cordite, and blood hung in the air.

A body twitched, then stilled.

And just like that—

It was over.

"Holy hell," Luka muttered, wiping blood off his face. "That actually worked."

Mina leaned against the dugout's wall, chest heaving. "I thought we were done for."

Joseph checked his ammo pouch, then slid down to sit beside the radio crate. His hands were trembling.

"Smart move," Goran said, kneeling beside him. "Luring them into that choke."

Joseph looked up, forcing a smile. "Wasn't that smart. Just lucky they took the bait."

"No," Mina said flatly, loading a new strip of rounds. "That was leadership."

The word hung in the air longer than the gunpowder. 

Diary EntryOctober 17th, 1919My 17th birthday.

I don't know how to feel about that.Seventeen. Another year alive. Another year buried in a war that has no end, no winners — just survivors.

We've been camped near the mouth of 41B since the ambush. The air still smells like iron and scorched wood. There's silence in the tunnels now, but it's the kind of silence that doesn't last. We all know that.

The General called me in this morning. Said they're considering moving me out of the Soldat ranks — either Officer, or Vanguard. Said what I pulled in 41B saved more lives than I'll ever know. That I "demonstrated battlefield control beyond my experience."

I don't know if that's true.

It didn't feel like control. It felt like instinct. I was scared. We all were. But for some reason, in the noise and dust and screaming, I saw a path forward.

Mina said it was leadership.

I never asked for that.

But maybe it's better than being someone who just follows orders until they die in a ditch. Maybe if I am an officer one day, I can make sure fewer kids like me die before their seventeenth birthday.

Still, the idea of being in command terrifies me. People listen to you when you're a Soldat. They trust you. But when you're an Officer? They depend on you.

One wrong call, and they don't get back up.

We'll see what they decide. Until then, I'll keep doing what I've always done. Load my rifle. Watch my squad's backs. Try not to fall asleep during watch. Try to make it to eighteen.

Happy birthday to me.

—Joseph Aslanov

end of chapter 4

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