Bab 1: Stand Still
Frainh rose from his knees, the weight of the blood-soaked earth pressing against his body. Around him, chaos reigned, artillery shells crashed into the ground, blowing up the battlefield. Yet, at that moment, Frainh felt nothing. The storm inside him had settled into a cold, deadly calm.
He reached for his whistle, pulled it to his lips, took a deep breath, the cold air stinging his lungs, and then he blew the whistle.
The piercing sound cut through the noise of battle, the only thing that mattered now. "Charge!" His voice roared "Push forward!"
He climbed out of the ditch, his boots sinking into the thick, wet mud. With the whistle still hanging from his neck, he raised his arm, signaling his soldiers to follow.
The men surged behind him, scrambling up the sides of the trench, eyes wide with fear and determination. The ground trembled beneath their boots as they stormed the battlefield.
The attack had begun.
Adrenaline coursed through his veins as he hefted his bolt-action rifle. He took aim at the advancing enemy soldiers, squeezing the trigger and feeling the familiar kick of the rifle against his shoulder as the shot rang out.
But then—click.
His heart sank as he cycled the bolt again, but it jammed. Panic flared in his chest, wrenching the bolt with all his strength, but it remained stuck. Around him, chaos reigned, the battlefield a symphony of screams and death.
"Get down Captain!" One of his soldiers shouted, panic lacing his voice as the machine gunner aimed at Frainh.
But Ivan acted swiftly, pulling the trigger. The sound of a bullet whizzed through the air, striking the machine gunner squarely between the eyes. The enemy crumpled, lifeless, his weapon finally falling silent. Blood splattered across the sandbags.
He started rushing further but then a shell exploded nearby sending a shockwave that knocked him off his feet. He crashed hard into a dead horse, its rotted body adding to the horrific smells.
When he regained his senses, he found himself surrounded by chaos. The ground was bloody, the cries of the wounded mingling with the distant rumble of artillery.
Staggering to his feet, Frainh's vision blurred and blood pounded in his ears.His body screamed in protest, but he pushed forward to the trenches.
The trench was a nightmarish realm, merely 500 meters long yet filled with the grotesque remnants of humanity. Soldier, chest cavity ripped open, innards exposed as if something had devoured him from the inside. Pieces of others littered the trench, a severed arm draped over the sandbags.
Men lay sprawled, bodies contorted in impossible angles, faces twisted in agony. Some barely clung to life, their eyes wide with terror, mouths agape as they gasped for breath. The sight of a comrade's head, blown apart by shrapnel, sent a jolt of nausea through him. Nearby, a soldier clawed at the mud, blood seeping from a gaping wound in his side, his cries for help drowned out by the explosions.
The fight in the trench raged on, a brutal melee of steel and flesh. Frainh pressed forward, the weight of his rifle feeling both like a lifeline and a burden. His soldiers fought valiantly beside him, their faces grim, eyes steely with determination as they clashed with the enemy.
Blood sprayed in thick arcs, painting the muddy ground crimson as men fell friends and foes alike under the relentless onslaught.
"Push them back!" He shouted, his voice barely rising above the chaos.
With each passing moment, they surged forward, the enemy's lines faltering under their fierce assault. Frainh led the charge, his bolt-action rifle roaring as he took down one enemy after another.
But then, as the last of the enemy soldiers fell back, their ranks crumbling, a sudden dread washed over him. They were retreating but not without a parting gift. The enemy began to shell Frainh's position, artillery fire erupting around them.
"Get down!" He shouted, but the warning was barely audible above the thunderous explosions. Shells struck the earth with deafening booms, showering debris and dirt over the trench. The ground shook violently as Frainh ducked, instinctively covering his head, his heart racing as he braced for impact.
Smoke and dust filled the air, making it difficult to see. Men shouted in panic, some lost to the chaos, others desperately trying to regroup amid the devastation.
Frainh looked up and a flicker of movement caught his eye, a hand fighting to emerge from the ground.
Without thinking, he rushed there and dropped to his knees and began digging, clawing at the dirt.
With a final, desperate shove, the ground gave way, and a soldier emerged, gasping for air, mud streaked across his face. Frainh pulled him up, heart racing as he caught a glimpse of the man's eyes, fear, confusion, and then, recognition.
"Captain!" the soldier gasped, relief flooding his voice. "I thought I would die!"
Frainh, his heart hammering in his chest, stood for a moment in stunned silence, barely able to catch his breath. He knew it wasn't over.
He sprinted down the length of the trench, his boots splashing through pools of blood, heart pounding as he scanned for survivors. The devastation hit him harder with each step.
So many bodies, twisted and broken, slumped against the walls, faces frozen in agony. A soldier's helmet lay tilted on a mound of dirt, a headless body beside it. His stomach churned, but he couldn't stop.
With trembling hands, he signaled for the remaining soldiers to gather what was left of the battalion. His eyes darted around as they counted, the silence between each number pressing down like a weight.
Out of 300 soldiers, only 155 stood before him, and most of them were barely able to stand. Faces pale with shock, limbs shaking from exhaustion, some looked at him with empty, hollow eyes, eyes that had seen too much.
Frainh's chest tightened as he leaned against the trench wall, the weight of the losses sinking in. Half of his men were gone. Half. The reality of it hit him like a blow to the gut, and he could feel the tears welling up, but he swallowed them down. There was no time for grief, no time for anything but survival.
The battle had never been meant to happen.
Frainh's unit had been a simple transport battalion, moving supplies and reinforcements to the front lines. Their duty was to deliver ammunition, and medical supplies. Yet here they were, broken and bloodied, having just survived a battle they hadn't planned for, hadn't even seen coming.
An ambush.
They had been traveling along the dirt road, heavy with supplies. The trenches they were meant to supply lay miles away. The men had been laughing, talking but then, the first explosion ripped through the earth, and the world turned to hell.
Artillery rained down on them from nowhere, shredding their unit. The shells came so fast and so heavy that their small convoy didn't stand a chance. Frainh could still hear the screams, the chaos that had erupted as the explosions tore through trucks and men alike. They had scrambled to take cover, but there was no cover, just open ground and the promise of death from the skies.
Now, sitting in the mud, Frainh's heart ached with a deep, gnawing sense of failure. They had lost so many for nothing.
He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. His men had died, not for a victory, not for some strategic gain, but because they had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Frainh tried to steady his breath, but his mind was haunted by the images of his comrades being torn apart, some of them in chunks of flesh and bone scattered across the blood-soaked earth. He had watched soldiers he had known for years, men who had fought beside him, been reduced to nothing but broken bodies in an instant. The ones who remained now huddled in shock, eyes wide, unseeing, hands trembling as they gripped their weapons. There was no glory in this. No battle cry. Just the empty silence of the dead.
Frainh wiped his face with a filthy hand, only spreading the grime further. His body was aching, every muscle screaming from the strain, but it was the emptiness inside him that hurt the most.
He couldn't shake that thought. All those lives lost, and they had accomplished nothing.
He looked up, squinting against the smoke that lingered in the air. The sky was clear, blue, and bright, in stark contrast to the devastation below. It was cruel, the smell was unbearable. Blood, sweat, gunpowder, and death all mixed together making every breath feel like poison.
His radio men, Ivan, stumbled through the muck toward him. His uniform was torn and stained with mud and blood, but he clutched a crumpled piece of paper in his hand. He handed it to Frainh, his eyes wide and hollow, just like the rest.
The paper was slick with mud and blood, but he could still read the words scrawled across it:
"Hanbor fallen. Defend Sangur line. Defend Sangur line."
Those three words stuck in his mind like a knife: "Hanbor fallen."
Hanbor, the main city on the border, was gone. It stood as the first line of defense between the Imperium and the Zhanur Kingdom. Its fall meant the Zhanur forces could now advance further into Imperial territory with little resistance. The Sangur Line wasn't even a real defense line, it was a desperate plan, hastily drawn up by commanders trying to connect three cities Lenon, Klein, and Jonher in a defensive arc along the Tsi River. If that line broke, the Imperium would face utter devastation. The Zhanur would have control of the river, the lifeblood of the empire.
Frainh's mind raced as he stared at the note, his eyes tracing over the words again and again as if reading them one more time would make them change.
The faces of the soldiers around him, young men, barely out of their teens were empty. Their eyes had lost the light of life, replaced by the dull stare of the traumatized. They had seen things no one should ever have to see. Limbs torn from bodies, men crushed under collapsing trenches, screams that would echo in their minds for the rest of their lives. The battle had lasted an hour, but for them, it had felt like a lifetime.
Frainh rose from the bloody earth, his legs trembling as he forced himself to stand. His vision swam for a moment, the fatigue and dehydration threatening to overwhelm him, but he steadied himself. They had no water, no food. He could barely feel the gnawing hunger in his stomach anymore, it had been replaced by the emptiness that came after witnessing death on this scale.
They had lost so much. Only three trucks remained intact from the ambush with little supply.
"Gather what you can!" Frainh shouted to his men, his voice thick with exhaustion. "Anything we can use. Weapons, supplies... take it all. We need to keep moving."
His men started picking through the bodies of the dead both friend and foe gathering what they could. There was no time for sentimentality. They couldn't afford to mourn the fallen. Every bullet, every rifle, every scrap of food they could scavenge might mean the difference between life and death in the hours to come.
Frainh climbed into the first truck, the map spread out on his lap as the engine rumbled to life beneath him. They were still a few hours from the Sangur Line, but the road ahead was fraught with danger. The Zhanur forces were closing in fast, and if they didn't reach the line in time, there would be nothing left to defend.
He traced the route with his finger, his heart sinking as he realized just how close the enemy was. The Zhanur trenches were only 20 kilometers away, their forces likely regrouping after taking Hanbor. His unit was all that stood between them and the Sangur Line. With the few men he had left, it felt like a death sentence.
"Ivan!" Frainh shouted.
Ivan, still covered in mud and blood, scrambled to the front of the truck, clutching the radio tightly.
"Contact headquarters. Find out how many are holding the Sangur Line. And where exactly they need us."
Ivan nodded, his hands shaking as he fiddled with the radio. The static crackled through the speaker as he tuned in, and after a few moments, a faint voice came through. Ivan scribbled down the message on a scrap of paper before handing it to Frainh.
Frainh's eyes scanned the paper, his blood running cold as he read the numbers.
"Lenon, 650."
Six hundred fifty men. That was all that stood at Lenon, one of the key cities in the Sangur Line. The Zhanur forces were already so close, and they only had 650 men to defend against an army. Frainh's hand clenched into a fist, crumpling the paper as rage bubbled up inside him. How could they send so few? The Imperium was hanging by a thread, and this was all they could spare?
He slammed his fist into the dashboard, the thud reverberating through the truck. The soldiers around him barely reacted. They were too numb to care anymore. They were heading into certain death, and they all knew it.
Frainh looked out over the broken landscape, the ruins of his unit scattered across the battlefield behind them. 650 men wouldn't be enough. Not against the Zhanur forces. Not with Hanbor already lost and the enemy so close. But they had no choice. They had to hold the line.
Frainh exhaled slowly, forcing the panic down, deep inside. There was no room for fear now. Only action. They would reach the Sangur Line, and they would fight, even if it was their last stand.
"Let's go." He muttered to the driver, his voice heavy with resignation. "We don't have much time."
As the trucks rumbled along the dirt road, the battlefield began to fade behind them, swallowed by the horizon and the lingering smoke. Frainh stared out of the cracked window, his eyes bloodshot and heavy with exhaustion. It felt surreal. Just minutes ago, they had been wading through blood and carnage, their comrades torn to shreds, the stench of death thick in the air. But now, as they drove further, it was as if they had entered a different world entirely.
The landscape transformed before his eyes. The road, which had been stained with mud and gore, gradually gave way to soft, green grass. Fields of wildflowers stretched out on either side, vibrant colors painting the earth like a peaceful dream. The sun shone gently through the clouds, casting a warm, golden light over the rolling hills. Birds chirped in the distance, their melodies soft and sweet, a stark contrast to the deafening screams of battle that had only just ceased.
Frainh's breath hitched in his throat. It was jarring this peaceful beauty, so close to the edge of hell. He almost couldn't comprehend it.
He glanced at the men sitting in the truck bed behind him. They too were silent, their faces etched with a hollow emptiness, but their eyes wandered over the tranquil scene, as if trying to make sense of the impossibility of it all. They had just crawled out of a nightmare, and now they were driving through a paradise that didn't seem to care that they were broken, bloodied, and bruised.
For a moment, Frainh wondered if this was some kind of sick joke. How could the world be so beautiful, so untouched, when death was only ten minutes behind them? He could still smell the blood, still hear the distant rumble of artillery in his mind, even though everything here was so serene. It was as if the war had never touched this place.
The flowers swayed gently in the breeze, delicate petals catching the sunlight. The grass was a rich, vibrant green, the kind that you'd want to lie down in and forget the world. But there was no forgetting. Not for Frainh. Not for the men. The horrors of the battlefield were etched into their minds like scars that would never fade.
Frainh clenched his fists, his knuckles white against the grime that caked his skin. It felt wrong to be here. To see this beauty, to feel the warmth of the sun, to hear the birdsong. It was like they had driven off the edge of reality into some twisted dream. The war should have ravaged this place too. There shouldn't be peace. Not when so many had just died.
The truck hit a bump in the road, jolting everyone back to the present. The illusion of peace began to shatter as the Sangur Line loomed closer. Frainh unfolded the crumpled map on his lap once again, tracing the thin line that connected them to their destination. They were still a few hours away, but the weight of their mission pressed heavier with every passing minute.
"Frainh." Ivan's voice broke the silence, startling him from his thoughts. The radioman's face was drawn tight with worry. "Do you think... we stand a chance?"
Frainh didn't answer immediately. He looked out at the fields again, at the peaceful world that seemed so far removed from their reality.
"The Sangur Line isn't even fully manned." Frainh muttered, more to himself than to Ivan. "650 men. That's all that's waiting for us. We're walking into hell with a handful of bullets and broken souls."
Ivan's face paled even further, but he nodded, his lips pressed into a thin line. "So... it's a suicide mission then?"
Frainh stared out at the serene landscape one more time, feeling the tug of the war behind him like a heavy chain around his neck. Yes, it felt like suicide.
"Maybe." Frainh finally said, his voice low, filled with the weight of grim determination. "But we'll hold it anyway. We'll hold the damn line, even if it kills us."
The truck rolled on, the peaceful fields giving way to harsher terrain as they drew closer to the Sangur Line. The beauty of the land faded into the background as the cold reality of war began to seep back into their bones. The air grew tense again, the weight of what was coming pressing down on them all.
Frainh folded the map and tucked it into his pocket, his eyes hardening as the distant shape of the city came into view. The calm was over. The war was coming for them once again.
The first shells began to fall. The explosions were distant, inaccurate, but they echoed like dark promises of what was to come. Each thundering crash was a reminder of the unstoppable force that would soon descend upon them. Dust and smoke rose in lazy clouds along the skyline.
The city of Lenon was bracing for a storm trenches dug into the earth, barbed wire strung up like veins along every street, barricades hastily thrown together with whatever materials the soldiers could find. Machine guns mounted on rooftops and in shattered windows pointed toward the treeline, where the enemy would eventually emerge.
Frainh's convoy, what was left of it, rumbled into the heart of the city. The trucks were battered, barely holding together, and the men were no better.
As they pulled to a stop, a major approached, opening the truck door with urgency. His eyes darted to the wrecked convoy and the bedraggled soldiers who stumbled out of the vehicles. The question hung heavy in his voice.
"Is this all?" The Major asked, his face tightening as he scanned what remained of Frainh's unit.
Frainh met his gaze.. "We were ambushed. 155 remaining." He replied, the weight of his words settling like lead between them.
The Major cursed under his breath, before turning on his heel and running back toward a nearby building. He waved for Frainh to follow, his hand a frantic blur in the chaos of soldiers rushing to fortify their positions.
Frainh climbed out of the truck, his legs stiff and aching from the journey. Around him, the soldiers of Lenon stopped what they were doing to watch. Their eyes followed him and his men beaten, bloody, and exhausted. Whispers rose in the air, hushed conversations about the sorry state of the reinforcements that had just arrived. Frainh could feel their judgment, the sinking realization that they were all probably marching to their deaths.
The Major led him to a large house that had been repurposed as a makeshift command center. The walls were cracked, and the windows had been shattered by earlier shelling, but it still stood, a small fortress amid the chaos.
Inside, three officers stood huddled around a large table, staring intently at a map of the region spread across it. One of them, a tall man with graying hair, slammed his fist down on the table as Frainh entered.
"Headquarters said we'd get a thousand men. A thousand! And we get... this?" His voice was a low growl, filled with frustration. His uniform was pristine compared to the filth caked on Frainh's. He looked up, eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of the ragged convoy. "They're going to fucking kill us."
The second officer, a broad-shouldered man with a thick beard, was slightly calmer, though his face was drawn tight with concern. He leaned over the map, tracing his finger along the Sangur Line. "We barely have 650 men stationed here.. We're outnumbered."
The third officer, a younger man, likely no older than Frainh himself, sat off to the side, flipping through pages of reports. His sharp, anxious movements betrayed his inexperience, but there was a fire in his eyes, a determination not yet crushed by the horrors of war. He looked up at Frainh, his lips pressed into a thin line. "Did any of your artillery survive the ambush?"
"One." Frainh muttered, feeling the exhaustion weigh down every word. "It's all we could salvage."
The older officer let out a harsh laugh, though there was no humor in it. "One. A thousand men reduced to one fucking artillery and a handful of survivors. We're in worse shape than I thought."
Frainh moved closer to the table, his eyes scanning the map. He could see the markers of the Sangur Line stretching out like a fragile thread between Lenon and the other cities. It was a thin defense, nothing more than a paper wall against the tide of Zhanur forces.
The bearded officer scratched his chin, his brow furrowed as he looked over the map again. "We need to fortify Lenon as best we can, but without more men, we're sitting ducks. Zhanur will cut through us like nothing."
Frainh swallowed hard, his throat dry. They were up against impossible odds. The weight of it pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating. He felt his body scream for rest, for sleep, for something other than this relentless march toward death. But there would be no rest. Not now.
Before stepping outside, the Major turned to Frainh. "Do any of your soldiers possess the System?"
Frainh shook his head. "Only me, but I don't have any God Crystals left."
The Major reached into his pocket and pulled out a crystal, handing it to Frainh. "So we are the only two. I can use the fire element."
Frainh grabbed the crystal, feeling its energy pulse against his palm. "I can manipulate the earth, but only once."
They exchanged a desperate smile, an unspoken understanding of the dire situation before them, and then stepped back inside the command center.
"What's the plan?" Frainh asked, his voice steady despite the chaos swirling in his mind. He could feel the eyes of the officers on him, waiting for him to break under the pressure.
The older officer sighed, rubbing his temples before speaking. "We don't have a choice. We dig in. We hold Lenon as long as we can, pray for reinforcements. "
Frainh nodded, though the pit in his stomach grew deeper with every word. This was a losing battle, and they all knew it. But they would fight anyway. Because that's what soldiers did. They fought, even when the world seemed determined to crush them.
"Get your men ready." The bearded officer said, his voice grim but resolute. "We don't have much time. And this city's going to burn."
He went out to look at the forest and he got an idea so he immediately ran back to the commanding center.
"I have a plan." He said, his voice cutting through the anxious chatter of the officers. They turned to him, eyes filled with skepticism and curiosity. "I can use my skill to make the forest as hard to pass as possible.
One of them raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
Frainh stepped closer to the table, pointing at the map. "I can manipulate the earth itself. I'll create barriers and obstacles that will slow the enemy down when they try to advance. If I cause the trees to fall and harden the ground, they'll have to fight their way through a maze of debris. It'll buy us time."
The bearded officer nodded slowly, contemplating the idea. "But how do you plan to keep them from just cutting through the trees or going around?"
Frainh's mind raced, and then it hit him. "I need barbed wire. If we string it along the tops of the fallen trees, it'll create an additional barrier. When the enemy tries to push through, they'll get caught in the wire."
Their expression shifted, the beginnings of approval lighting up his features. "That could work. It would make the forest a deadly maze for them." Said the Major.
Frainh felt a rush of determination. "We have to move quickly. I can only manipulate the earth a limited number of times, and we need to act before they reach us."
The younger officer leaned in, enthusiasm building. "We have a lot of barbed wire."
"Let's get to it, then." The Major commanded, a new spark of urgency in his voice. "Frainh, you focus on manipulating the ground. We'll handle the wire and get it strung up. If we can buy ourselves enough time, we might stand a chance."
Frainh nodded, adrenaline surging through him as he moved toward the door. The officers hurried to follow, their expressions shifting from doubt to determination. Together, they would create a fortress out of the forest.
As the officers worked to gather the barbed wire, Frainh unleashed his skill, causing the earth to tremble and shift. Trees cracked and splintered, falling to the ground in a chaotic but purposeful arrangement. He could feel the energy draining from him, but he pushed on, the vision of the battlefield guiding his every move.
When the first trees came crashing down, their trunks thudding against the earth, the soldiers nearby paused to watch, astonished. Frainh moved with purpose, crafting an intricate web of obstacles that would slow any advancing enemy.
Once the initial barriers were set, Frainh turned his attention to the wire. Soldiers scurried to his side, the barbed strands glinting ominously in the fading light. They worked in unison, stringing the wire along the tops of the fallen trees, ensuring that anyone attempting to push through would be caught in the vicious grip of their own ambition.
Frainh took a moment to step back, surveying the twisted labyrinth they had created. The forest had transformed into a treacherous battleground, a deadly trap for anyone who dared to cross it.
"Now we wait." The bearded officer said, his voice laced with a mix of anxiety and anticipation.
Frainh nodded, feeling the weight of what lay ahead. They had crafted a formidable defense, but the battle was far from over. The true test would come when the enemy finally arrived, and they would need to be ready for whatever chaos unfolded.
Together, they stood at the edge of the forest, united in purpose, ready to face the storm that approached.
As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting an eerie glow over the transformed landscape, Frainh took a deep breath, feeling the cool air fill his lungs. They were ready. Now all they could do was wait for the storm to arrive. The ground beneath them was a testament to their determination a treacherous expanse of wood and earth that would protect them for as long as possible.
With their defenses in place, they stood together, prepared to face whatever came next. The city of Lenon was bracing for a storm, and they were determined to weather it together.
Status Power Mingguan
-- Peringkat
Power 
-- Power
stone