Chapter 4

POV: Bell

Three days in the forest.

We passed the gutted corpses of animals, burned-down tents, and the frantic footprints of people fleeing south.

Zeo said, “The villagers were forced out of here.”

Thanh said nothing, eyes fixed on the dried blood smeared across tree branches.

I didn’t know what we were looking for.

Our orders were to clear the forest blockade, but the "blockage" now… wasn’t trees.

It was bodies.

---

That night, it rained.

We found a small abandoned hut – an old hearth, a few torn mats, and a metallic stench that wouldn’t go away.

Zeo checked the perimeter. I walked around the back. Thanh went inside.

Then I heard someone retch.

I ran in on instinct.

Thanh had collapsed onto the dirt floor, pale as a ghost, vomit still on his lips.

Zeo stood silently, eyes locked on one corner of the hut.

I followed his gaze… and wished I hadn’t.

---

Half a human corpse.

From the chest down. The rest… stripped to the bone.

Stomach empty. Heart missing.

Precise, clean knife marks. Not an animal. Not a monster.

A person.

Next to it was a sealed clay pot.

I didn’t want to open it.

But Zeo already had.

> “Meat,” he said. Not even a flicker in his expression.

---

I took a step back. My lungs locked.

> “This could be—” I started, my voice shaking.

> “It isn't anything else,” Zeo cut me off.

“Someone ate human flesh to survive.”

Thanh kept vomiting.

I didn’t.

I just stood there, gripping my knife, cold crawling up my spine one vertebra at a time.

---

We found more signs: rope burns, iron hooks.

Torn children’s clothes.

I found a small femur — maybe from a little girl.

My head buzzed.

> “War breaks everything,” Zeo said, voice hollow as rotten wood.

“When death becomes normal… life starts to feel unnatural.”

I looked at my hands.

They were bloody — I hadn’t noticed.

And I realized: I was trembling.

Not from fear of the enemy.

But because…

I was beginning to understand why people betray.

Why they kill.

Why they eat each other.

When pushed to the brink,

we stop being human.

---

I sat on the ground.

Rain kept falling, soaking into my hair, chilling me to the bone.

I thought of Sina.

Does he know things like this happen?

Has he ever seen a mother eat her own child alive?

Or has he just learned not to ask anymore?

---

That night, I didn’t sleep.

I just stared at that half-body, still breathing like a curse left behind in the hut.

Zeo burned the clay pot.

Thanh draped a cloak over the corpse’s face.

I just sat there…

listening to my heartbeat.

Scattered.

And no longer sure what was right.

---

The next morning, we moved on.

The rain had left thick mud and a stench that clung to our boots.

Thanh said nothing. Zeo too.

Every few steps, I turned back —

as if the corpse was still following us.

---

Around noon, we heard gunfire.

Not ours.

Short bursts. Repetitive.

Screams. Children’s voices. Pleas drowned by the ripping sound of small artillery.

Zeo looked at me. Didn’t ask. Just drew his gun and ran.

We arrived — a village had been raided.

---

Not by the enemy.

Our own side.

I recognized the unit insignia — from the Eastern region, infamous for “scavenging” before retreating.

They didn’t look at us like allies.

Just glared, hands clutching sacks of rice, bundles of grain, even silver children’s bracelets.

---

Zeo walked straight up to their commander.

> “So you loot, then burn the village?”

The man sneered.

> “These people harbored spies. Orders from above.”

I looked around.

Only the elderly, women, and a few kids.

An old woman was tied to a post, gagged.

A child clung to her baby sibling, standing next to their mother — throat slit.

---

Zeo didn’t wait.

He shot the commander in the leg.

He collapsed. The rest drew weapons — but Thanh had already flanked them, rifle aimed.

Zeo growled:

> “Get out of this village. If you want to live.”

They hesitated, then retreated.

One tried to fire back — Thanh shot his shoulder clean through. Blood splattered the bamboo wall.

---

We stayed until evening.

Buried the dead.

Washed off the blood.

Untied the ropes.

Cooked porridge with rainwater and spilled rice.

An old woman clung to my hand, sobbing, repeating:

> “Why do you all wear the same uniform… yet one saves me, the other kills me…”

I didn’t know what to say.

I… wasn’t even sure what color I was wearing anymore.

---

That night, the real enemy came.

Thirty of them. Armed. No flag. No insignia.

Mercenaries or deserters — killing to steal, surviving just to survive.

No choice left.

We had to fight.

---

Bullets shattered the night.

Each shot like a spike through the chest.

I fired, fired, ran.

Dust and splinters flying.

Someone shouted:

> “They’re inside the houses!”

I charged in — saw one dragging a girl.

I kicked him down. Pulled my knife.

The first time I stabbed someone.

Flesh… softer than I expected.

He fought back, blood spurting, hitting my face.

I was in shock.

But my hand kept stabbing.

I didn’t think.

I didn’t hesitate.

---

By the end, fourteen were dead. The rest fled.

Civilian casualties… no one counted anymore.

I sat behind a burned house, dried blood on my face, smoke in my lungs, hands shaking.

Not from fear.

But because I knew—

> “I’ve killed.

And I… will have to kill again.”

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