Chapter 7: Toll of the Second Bell

That night, I tossed and turned, unable to sleep, so I went outside for some air. Wayne sucking blood, the Red-Eyed Squad eating meatballs, Livingston resurrected—there were too many mysteries in this world.

The camp was quiet, the stars blurry behind a haze of smoke. I wandered to the edge of the pine forest, drawn by the flicker of a small fire.

As I walked, I found myself at the edge of a pine forest, alone. I heard rustling in the bushes and tensed, but it was just an old and a young soldier roasting a wild rabbit over a fire.

The older man tipped his cap at me, grinning as he waved me closer. Their laughter was soft and private, a rare comfort in the chaos.

Seeing me, the old soldier warmly shared a rabbit leg, grinning like we were back at a Fourth of July cookout instead of a warzone:

"Brother, don’t tell anyone—we just can’t stomach those meatballs anymore."

I accepted, and learned they were father and son. The son had been drafted, and the father, worried, joined up too. They took turns eating, a rare warmth in this strange world.

The simple meal tasted like home, and for a minute, the world felt almost normal. I was about to speak when the bell sounded. Both men clutched their heads in agony—the second bell had rung.

The sound drilled into my skull, hot and sharp, like a dentist’s drill gone wild. Guys dropped to their knees, screaming, blood running from their noses.

When the bell stopped, I helped the old man to his feet—only for his son to suddenly draw his knife and hack off his father’s head.

Blood splattered the pine needles, and the scream echoed off the trees. I staggered back, stunned.

Shocked, I instinctively struck back, mortally wounding the son. As he lay dying, he muttered:

"Damn it, why should you be the father and I the son? Just because you were born first? If I were older, you’d have to respect me."

With that, he died.

The campfire snapped, sending embers swirling up into the night. I stood over their bodies, numb, the rabbit leg still in my hand. The guilt hit me so hard my knees buckled. I’d sent him, and now his blood was on my hands. My fear of the bell only deepened. Just moments ago, they’d been a loving father and son—now, they’d slaughtered each other.

I looked at the rabbit leg the old man had given me and sighed. But as I was about to bury them, the horn sounded—the enemy was launching a night raid.

The camp exploded into chaos—shouts, gunfire, people scrambling for weapons. Back at the tent, everyone was on alert. But when the firelight revealed the enemy general, everyone gasped in terror.

Wearing a three-pronged gold crown, a red brocade coat, beast-faced armor, a lion belt, bow and arrows at his side, and wielding a halberd—it was Lou Boone, the God of War, long dead.

He looked like he’d stepped straight out of some feverish history lesson, his armor glinting in the flames. Folks stared in awe and terror, recognizing the legend before them.

"Soldiers, charge with me!" Lou Boone’s voice was low and hoarse, like a whisper from the underworld. "Leave none alive!"

The Maple Heights soldiers surged forward behind Lou Boone. Before, just Wayne could fight a thousand—now, with the God of War himself? The Red-Eyed Squad charged, but couldn’t even get close. Lou Boone swept his halberd, cutting several in half at the waist. The line collapsed—no one could stop him.

The smell of blood and gunpowder was thick enough to choke on. Panic swept through the ranks like wildfire.

Seeing this, Sam Mason closed his eyes in despair. After a long time, he sighed:

"Is fate truly unbreakable? Pass my order."

With help, he mounted his horse:

"All troops, retreat."

A bugler sounded the call. Boots thundered as men scrambled to fall back, the night swallowing us in our shame and terror.