~~~

  The stench of the dead blanketed the vacant field, a putrid, choking smell. It hung over everything. My God. I can't even imagine dealing with this daily… or the fact that we're even part of this damn war.

  The ground thundered as soldiers marched toward a scorched field. The dead grass and surrounding mud made the place feel like hell, a ruined complex and burnt-out vehicles scattered everywhere as we moved forward.

  We passed wreckage: BMPs, BMDs… women, children, and the elderly moving in the opposite direction. The sound of weeping children mixed with the distant thunder of artillery and sporadic gunfire, the war continuing on all fronts.

  At that time, I was still a major, fighting in the Second Chechen War. As part of Operation Wolf Hunt, I belonged to the 81st Guards Motor-Rifle Petrokov Regiment, under Group North. We were part of a convoy headed toward the capital, Grozny. It wouldn't be long before this came to be known as:

  The Battle of Grozny

  “Get your asses ready! Those fucking bastards are waiting for us!”

  I drew my AK-74M and moved with the BTR-80s toward the ruined Grozny airport. We stormed in fast, and just as quickly, we sped out.

  Then came the shots.

  Muzzle flashes lit up the airport, and even farther beyond, the battle raged.

  “WATCH YOUR DISTANCE!”

  Bullets ricocheted off armoured hulls; some whistled overhead. Our men advanced under covering fire. Some returned shots with their AKs; one round came so close to my eye it felt like death had grazed me.

  “Fuck!”

  “SHIT, GET DOWN!”

  Some weren't so lucky. I watched, horror-stricken, as one of our men took a round to the head. Blood sprayed across my face, and I spat out the taste of iron from my mouth.

  He dropped like a ragdoll. I hastily wiped the blood away.

  “Fucking bastards!” I bellowed, firing round after round into the rebels’ defences, my Kalashnikov barrel heating with each shot.

  We counter-fired with BTR-70, providing heavy fire in the direction of the Chechnya rebels, black dust shrouded as they ceased their relentless fire, upon which we continued our counter-fire with PKM, AK-74M, and AK-74s combined. And the heavy bronze casting whizzed out, while the bulletproof building was now Swiss cheese.

  “I spotted some rebels with RPGs! We need these BTRS to get outta here!”

  A trail of smoke flew out of the building we shot at; BAM, an explosion occurred over the BTR-70 next to us, and a second explosion erupted as I pushed back to the second BTR to my right. Screams of terror and men poured out like ants as the vehicle caught on fire.

  A second volley of heavy armour-piercing rounds was fired towards the vehicle while the BTR-80’s KPV heavy machine gun fired back. The situation was not going as planned, with casualties coming in numbers.

  “Major!” said one private. His yell came from the back, frantically huffing and puffing.

  “AH! Ah… I got reports that rebels are flaking to our side, and we need to cover that side before they can strike us back!”

  I turned my direction towards our destroyed BTR-70, the paint burnt off, and the medics closed by clearing some of the half-life men. I glanced back at the private and nodded.

  “Inform your squad leader to move to the left, and I'll have the rest of the companies spread out. Those fucking rebels will not know what is coming...”

  The troops ran off while the fighting continued, the crash of artillery and gunfire echoing through the cracked concrete and blown-up tarmac. Our fortified position, already reduced to rubble by days of nonstop fighting, was finally taken. Smoke swirled over shattered rebar and bent bunkers as orders crackled over radios, hardly above the din.

  Several of our grunts bolted for the airstrip, going low and fast beneath a veil of suppressive fire. The ruins of burnt-out planes and gutted helicopters choked the field like metal corpses, their mangled husks giving just enough cover to scuttle behind. Nearby, explosions spewed dirt and debris in convulsive bursts.

  I stepped to cover their withdrawal, firing down rounds as the rest of the 81st Guards Motor-Rifle Petrokov Regiment continued moving forward, crawling across the bare strip with grim resolve. Cordite and blood clung to the air. My boots stomped against the broken pavement, my heart pounding in harmony with each of the shots that cracked through the smoke.

  Heavy fire continued to pour in wave after relentless wave, the cacophonous beat of war refusing to abate. I dove behind the wreckage of a Mi-17 helicopter, bullets clanging and ricocheting off its charred metal. My lungs were seared, either from the run or the heavy, suffocating smoke. But I didn't have the time to worry about it.

  "FUCK!"

  A stray bullet whizzed by my face, so close I could taste the heat of the displaced air. I hit hard against the hull, gasping for air, adrenaline overriding all sense. Nearby, a couple of soldiers who had seen the close call let out bellowing laughs, their faces streaked with dirt, their eyes wide with the same mix of fear and elation I felt.

  "Major! Looks like you evaded the devil!" one of them yelled, voice half-muffled beneath the gunfire.

  "Too young to see my mama!" I shouted back, grinning through clenched teeth.

  I glanced back toward the structure we’d just abandoned. The building looked like Swiss cheese, riddled with bullet holes, its outer walls pocked and sagging from repeated blasts. Even after being mag-dumped by a whole regiment, it still bristled with life. A few defenders were holding out inside, stubborn bastards who refused to die.

  Abruptly, a far-off rumble swept in, deep and rasping. Reinforcements. A T-80UD roared into sight from the treeline on the far side of the Rhine, its green body wet with mud and smoke streaks. Its turret swept the horizon like a hunting animal sniffing out prey. A staccato burst of heavy machine gun fire ripped through the air, clattering overhead as the tank's coaxial MG opened up, scouring the enemy positions.

  Our spirits lifted. The battlefield was a nightmare, but watching that steel monster rumble in, belching fire and thundering like a dragon, ignited a flame in every soldier around me. We knew we had more work to do.

  An RDG-2 smoke grenade lay on the destroyed runway, its plume covering fifty metres, maybe more, thanks to the wind. I reloaded my rifle, gasped for breath, and stood up from behind the wreckage.

  “GO!”

  Emerging from the rubble of a ruined helicopter, I moved toward the open hangar with backup from the 9th Tank Company. The ground trembled as armoured vehicles opened fire, turning the structure into a storm of metal and flame.

  Troops trailed behind me, all of us sprinting like mad while bullets sliced the air. Praise the Lord, none of us were hit. We reached the other side and slipped into the hangar, lungs burning. We paused just long enough to catch our breath. Rifles raised, eyes scanning the vacant helicopters and the dim interior, every man braced for contact.

  Then, the muzzle flashes.

  “ARGH!”

  A corporal was hit in the leg and dropped with a scream.

  “AMBUSH! Shit, GET DOWN!” I shouted.

  The corporal went down, but the others weren’t as lucky. Blood splattered like paint. Some were torn apart near the metal pillars, bullets falling in a rapid, deadly rhythm.

  My mind was focused, but my body felt detached like a puppet firing back at the flashes above. Rebels were shooting from the shattered roof. I squeezed the trigger, emptying my mag into the rafters. One rebel dropped, crashing down like dogshit from a broken pipe.

  Then I spotted a second rebel by a helicopter, crouched behind the fuselage with a machine gun.

  “Motherfucker!” I muttered.

  A sudden muzzle flash and the remaining men turned their weapons toward the helicopter.

  “Incoming!” someone yelled.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  We scattered toward cover as the machine gun erupted, a relentless spray of death. The ground around us kicked up with every round.

  “Bastards are pinning us down!” a sergeant shouted. “Should I throw smoke?”

  “Don’t!” I barked. “Those sons of bitches are expecting it. Flank them from the rear, I'll draw fire with this private.”

  Suddenly, a rebel emerged from the left, yelling in Chechen. Before he could raise his weapon, I snapped mine up and fired. A burst tore into him, his scream was short, full of pain.

  “FUCK!”

  The sergeant advanced with another unit, slipping behind cover. I glanced at the private beside me, his eyes blank, face frozen, mind shattered by the chaos around us. He wasn’t really there anymore. But his body still responded, still followed orders. That was enough, for now.

  "Ready?"

  "Ye~YES! MAJOR, LET'S DO IT!!"

  ONE TWO THREE, GO!

  The machine gunner ran out of ammunition, and the reverberating shots suddenly cut off. Both of us stood up, rifles raised, aiming at the helicopter. Kalashnikovs barked single shots. The chopper withered in the air as the gunner sprinted toward the opening, only to be torn apart by an open fire, his body shredded like swizzled cheese.

  The sergeant and the second private dispatched the bastard, then came over to us, smiling, slapping each other on the back for the kill. At the entrance to the hangar, more soldiers emerged, more than fifty of them, with a BTR-80. The front captain looked around, obviously impressed with how well we had cleared the hangar.

  "What's the situation on the main building?" I asked.

  We've cleared the rebels," said the captain. "The 3rd Battalion and the balance of the 6th Guards Tank Regiment are pushing on further into the city centre. Expect heavy urban resistance. We can't remain here long...We're moving out at 1500 hours.

  I didn't protest. Orders were orders. The surviving men scrounged what they could and took note. Behind us, helicopters hugged the ground, and more vehicles advanced. Reinforcements poured in as we initiated the next phase of the offensive.

  A brief moment of relief, one I’ll take to heart. Because from here, it only gets worse. These Chechen rebels may lack our firepower, but they’ve proven they can decimate an entire Russian force if underestimated. Taking the whole city is going to get most of us killed… and that’s the ugly truth.

  _

  Still, this short respite put things in perspective for me – why we're here, why we fight. I'll own up: I was nobbefor to all of this. But with everything, I've done something. Something that means we represent more than mere survival.

  Perhaps, after all this, I could at last earn myself a desk assignment.

  A desk job? Ha! Thirty years of service, another two decades wandering from one goddamn division to the next. I never did get a real desk job. Got deranked a couple of times, thanks to President Putin himself. And, ironically enough, that son of a gun is also the reason I got killed in combat.

  And now, as reality creeps back in, I recall where I am.

  I'm in the hellscape of a new world, brought here by the version of me that I had become when I died.

  Undead soldiers stumble through the debris, clearing rubble and scanning for any other summons that would have been flattened in the fall. Archers reorganise at the far end, debriefing the newer skeletons I'd summoned not too long ago.

  Before that "boss fight", my numbers were down. Now, they've grown again. This golden staff by my side… it's stronger than anything I've ever wielded. I can feel it, its presence, its power. And with it, an odd feeling of thanks. I killed that son of a necromancer, and in killing him, I've become something greater.

  Since his death, I've changed, bodily and mentally. I'm becoming something new. Or perhaps… something old.

  I gazed into a puddle beside me, gritty, but readable. And there I saw: my reflection.

  My old self.

  Somehow, in this warped new world, I towed my old self along. Even with my wrinkled face looking back, I felt sixteen again. The constant pain, the meds, the scripts – they were gone. Like Jesus Himself gave me a clean slate.

  "My health is… improving," I grumbled.

  I was the only one with skin. The only one who remained human-looking. It was. Troubling. If I ever did make it back to the surface, leading an army of skeletons would make one thing certain: I'd be branded a monster. A "Demon General". Perhaps even the Devil himself.

  But that wasn't the issue on my mind.

  Currently, I need improved equipment.

  The adventurers of the Damian Kingdom would easily wipe out my undead. And though these soldiers carried pieces of their past lives, their discipline, and their instincts, they weren't constructed for this world.

  They weren't prepared.

  But I will.

  "General!" a woman's voice cried out on my left.

  I spun around, immediately identifying the voice.

  "Major Dasha Feofil," I answered. "Yes, what you..."

  My words stuck in my throat.

  "What the…?"

  "What? What's wrong?" she asked.

  I gaped at her in shock.

  Dasha… she didn't resemble an undead anymore. She didn't even resemble a corpse. Hell, she resembled alive. Radiantly alive.

  Golden blonde hair glimmered under the shattered light. Her eyes, clear blue as the sea in the tropics, were not at all like the dead sockets of the others. Smooth, flawless skin. She was… beautiful. Like some war-toughened goddess. Far, far from the skeletal corpses I had raised before.

  I retreated a step, blinking hard.

  "Fuckin' hell, Major?! When did you begin looking human again?!"

  "Ah~," she blushed, almost shy.

  "Major General… I just noticed it myself. When we killed that giant bastard, I felt this surge, something powerful. And while you were experiencing your… transformation, I started changing too. I feel stronger. Whole. And I guess… this came with it."

  She stared down at her hands, curling her fingers like she hadn't experienced them in years. There was amazement in her eyes, coupled with fear and curiosity.

  Interesting. It appears that following the defeat of the legendary necromancer, any of the surviving summons I had will be levelled up if they manage to last that long.

  Constantly surviving and levelling up allows one to become more human than an unalive corpse and seeing Major Dasha Feofil appear like one, I began to be less concerned about the issue of bringing a whole undead force, but even then, with the Major calling me earlier for something, I went back to the topic.

  “Didn’t call me for a cup of tea...” I muttered towards Major Dasha Feofil, “Did you find something?”

  Major Dasha Feofil went back into a more mature tone, giving a debriefing about their recent discovery.

  "While you were taking your break, Major General… we found something that might interest you."

  Behind Major Dasha Feofil stood one of her scouting groups, undead skeletons among them. They carried a heavy stack of something wrapped in torn cloth and canvas. As they dropped it, the weight caused the bundle to split slightly. One of the undead knights reached in and pulled out an item.

  Alexander’s eyes widened in disbelief. Major Dasha Feofil was right, this was a surprise.

  It was an AK-74. The wooden stock, though rotted and worn, was still intact. The rifle’s paint was chipped, the metal rusted in places, but the mechanism worked. I pulled the bolt a few times, surprisingly smooth. It could still fire.

  I examined an orange polymer magazine. Still loaded. 5.45×39mm rounds. The tips were marked in green. The ammo looked aged but intact, with no rust on the rounds. Serviceable. I looked back at Major Dasha Feofil, whose face held a strange mix of intrigue and concern.

  "Where the hell did you find this?"

  "Just down the corridor," she replied. "And not just this; there's more. Ammunition. Heavier weapons. This is only a sample. The undead summons might be guarding a whole cache."

  Treasure? Right, every undead legendary guardian guards a treasure. But a rusty Kalashnikov in this world? This wasn’t Earth. How the hell did it get here?

  "Also", she continued, "we found helmets, body armour, and other gear. Some dead soldiers were guarding the entrance to the vault. I think you could re-summon them with their gear still on."

  That was a good idea. A damn good one. The discovery stirred something in me. I stood up at once, unable to hide my excitement.

  "Take me there."

  The soldiers fell in behind us. The clatter of boots and the creak of armor echoed through the stone halls. Every summons under my command joined the march, drawn by the promise of this so-called treasure. Major Dasha Feofil led the way, her scouts close behind.

  "We’re close, General."

  I gazed above to see a large door guarding the main entrance. Halfwide opens as Major Dasha Feofil halts and gives me an opening to go in first.

  “You take the lead, General.”

  The dead soldiers didn't move. They stood silent, observing, as if I was the only one who was supposed to take the torch and move forward towards the podium.

  Through the heavy, worn doors, a gold light poured into the corridor, blinding in its radiance. I moved in, eyes squinting against the glare. For an instant, I couldn't see anything.

  But then,

  No gold. No jewels.

  Just rows and rows of guns. A whole arsenal, glinting in that holy light.

  Light weapons. Heavy weapons. Armoured cars. Boxes filled with anti-tank rifles, ATGMs, and assault rifles. Even assault cars.

  This was the booty?

  The soldiers behind me stepped in and ended their silence. Cheers burst out like kids at a carnival.

  "General! These are Kalashnikovs!"

  They moved between crates, eyes wide with wonder, voices full of enthusiasm. They raised guns, examined scopes, and bellowed names like friends reunited. It was not just a battlefield resupply. It was a homecoming to ghosts of the past.

  I did not know how I felt.

  "Major Dasha", I hailed, sweeping the room. "Take a look around and see if there is anything that might be of use. I'll check for traps."

  She nodded and merged into the throng of revelling soldiers, disappearing as though she had never existed in bone and ash.

  I glanced over to the other end of the room and there, by the wall, was he.

  A dead soldier.

  Slumped and collapsed against the crates. His aged body was wrinkled with at least a hundred years passed, but he still had on the discoloured blue beret of the VDV. His rusting AK-12 lay across his lap as if still prepared for war.

  Something about that image struck hard.

  Kherson.

  That memory surfaced unbidden. Blood in the streets. Fire in the heavens. The helplessness. The struggle. The guilt.

  I shook it off, but the sensation persisted. Heavy and thick at the back of my mind.

  "General?" Major Dasha's voice broke in.

  "Perhaps… perhaps we should call for more. We could use the numbers. Reinforce."

  She was right.

  The VDV had defended this location once. Perhaps some of them still lingered, waiting. Willing.

  I gazed once more at the dead soldier.

  Perhaps it was time to give them a second chance.

  The personnel started to radiate. The crystal at the end floated, turning ever more quickly until it became a vortex of light. I stood and saw the body of the dead VDV soldier disintegrate and break apart into flecks of energy. Conjuration circles glowed before me, throbbing with old magic as dust danced in the air.

  A ghostly pale arm pushed up from the ground, rifle first, then the whole body of the soldier. He climbed up, a glow of faint red emanating from the eye holes of his skull. He was attired in new equipment, spotless and well cared for, in contrast to the platoon's older, rusting gear.

  He advanced one step, clutching his AK-12 with reverence, and stared straight at me.

  Ready to serve once more," he growled in a low, gravelly voice.

  I nodded. The problem of antiquated firepower was a thing of the past. Beyond us, the arsenal that we had uncovered was sufficient to blow a small state to kingdom come. But the question was, was it time to return to the surface at last?

  I looked at him. "Do you know where we can exit here?

  The soldier remained silent, lifted his arm, and pointed toward my back. I looked where he indicated and saw it, a big freight elevator built into the wall. It was a mess, but not beyond fixing.

  Behind me, Major Dasha Feofil came forward, her eyes wide.

  "General! There's an elevator we can—"

  She caught herself in mid-sentence as she noticed the VDV trooper standing proudly among the dead. He appeared to be one of their own from the past, but everything about him, everything he wore, the way he carried himself, was different. She gazed her expression a mix of wonder and apprehension.

  I put a supportive hand on her shoulder and smiled.

  "Those primitive weapons of ours are history. Are you ready to go to the surface?"

  She stood up and nodded firmly.

  "I'm more than ready, General."

  Her fighting spirit brought back memories of why she had always been one of the strongest in the previous world. With new weapons at our disposal and power coursing through me, I knew those bastards up there wouldn't know what hit them.

  The new world was going to be different.