1636: Into the Slaughter

You hit the ground so hard your jaw splits. Mud floods your mouth. Blood blinds your eyes. You can’t breathe. You can’t see. A man is on top of you—screaming, sobbing, punching with fists soaked in shit and gore. You don’t know who he is. No one has a face anymore. Everyone’s the same—coated in filth, powder, and blood. You try to fight back, but your arms barely work. Then a blade drives through his back. He convulses, defecates, and collapses on top of you. The killer walks away, dragging his sword without a word. You crawl free, gagging. Your hands sink into something soft—flesh, organs. You don’t look. Around you lie shredded limbs, twitching fingers, spilled guts, cracked jaws. The sky is gone—blotted out by smoke thick enough to choke the sun. The air reeks of blood, shit, and burnt meat. Another figure charges. You have no blade. You bite his face. His cheek tears. He dies. You vomit on yourself and keep moving. A soldier nearby prays. One last hope. Then a sword erupts through the back of his skull—out his eye, out his mouth. He falls mid-prayer. No one cares. Men around you bite, claw, scream. Some laugh like animals. Some dig at their own skin. A cannon fires. Something wet lands on you. Might be a lung. Might be someone’s heart. A horse twitches beside you, its eye wide in frozen terror. For a moment, you hope it’s a nightmare. It’s not. This is 1636. The Thirty Years War. You are a Swedish infantryman—but names, nations, and gods mean nothing here. Only that you’re still crawling. Still bleeding. Still… human. Though you don’t know how much human you are anymore. You whisper it through cracked teeth and blood: “Not today.” There is no glory here. No honor. No command. Only blood. Only smoke. Only truth. Turn back now, if the lie still comforts you. Because here, death is mercy. And you’re not ready for mercy.