Battle Begins

You’re barely off the rubble, barking orders to reposition snipers and reinforce the alley bottlenecks, when you hear footsteps. They were rapidly approaching.

You turn, eyes narrowing at what you assume to be Yousef.

Charging into the square like a storm with boots, his scarf soaked in sweat and soot. His rifle hangs off his shoulder like dead weight. Behind him, only one man, Hakim, the youngest of the skirmishers. Limping. Bleeding from somewhere under his shirt. But alive.

You step forward just as Yousef stumbles to a stop, chest heaving, hands on his knees.

“Report,” you demand.

He looks up, grinning through cracked lips, eyes wild with the fire of someone who saw **** and spat in its face.

“They’re stalled!” he pants. “We bought you another hour!”

Your heart skips, then hammers.

“How?”

Yousef stands up straighter, blood splattered across his neck. “We took out the track on one of the tanks. Caught it as they crossed the ridge pass. One of their own trucks clipped a mine trying to swerve around. We doubled back before they got smart.”

You nod, a slow exhale passing through clenched teeth. “Damage?”

Yousef shakes his head, glancing at Hakim. “Five stayed behind. Two didn’t make it out. We moved fast. The bastards didn’t know where to shoot. They’re not trained like us, John.”

The words feel good to hear. But they don’t linger long. You narrow your gaze.

“Scouting details. What are we looking at?”

Yousef’s tone hardens, like a switch flipped. “Seven troop transports. Could be up to fifty men total, minus the ones we took out. Maybe local recruits mixed in, but they didn’t look like militia.”

“Armour?”

“One tank. T-72, heavy.”

You feel your jaw clench.

You nod once. “You did good, akhi. Go drink. Patch up. I’ll need your voice on the lines when this starts.”

Yousef doesn’t argue. He just clasps your shoulder, firm. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Then he turns, helping Hakim toward the makeshift infirmary.

You look south. Toward the smoke rising in the far distance.

One hour to prepare. To pray.

The village is dead silent.

The fires have been put out. The pots covered. No babies crying. Even the animals seem to sense it, that something is coming, and it does not arrive with mercy.

You stand at the main line, just behind the makeshift barricades of stone, metal, and torn furniture.

Snipers are in place. Machine guns mounted. Traps set. You’re bleeding defence from every crack in this ancient place.

You scan the rooftops. Eyes on you.

You hold up your fist.

“Preserve your ammo,” you say. Calm. Controlled. “No wild shots. No glory kills. You see the whites, then you fire.”

A slow ripple of nods across the high ground.

Below, on the line beside you, the Lions are shoulder to shoulder. Some are gritting their teeth. Some are whispering prayers. Most are just still. Hardened. Ready.

You step out just far enough for them to hear.

“When it begins,” you say low, “you wait for me. No one fires until I fire.”

No argument.

The rumble. Faint at first.

A slow growl in the bones of the earth.

Your fingers curl tighter around your rifle.

Then it grows louder. Closer. Metal clanking. Treads rolling. Engines groaning under weight. Voices barked in Russian.

The street ahead is empty. But you can feel them now.

The moment before contact.

The first shot cracks out from the rooftop to your left. Then another. Then all at once, the air becomes thunder.

Muzzle flashes light the rooftops. Spent casings rattle against stone. Screams echo between alley walls. .

BOOM.

A tank shell punches through the sky above, slicing past the rooftop positions. It detonates somewhere behind you, too far to matter, too wild to care. No screams.

Missed.

“RELOCATE!” you shout, pointing at the rooftops. “MOVE POSITIONS! DON’T STAY PLANTED!”

Your voice cuts through the gunfire like a whip. You don’t wait to see if they obey, you know they will.

The rumble of a transport.

Close.

Your eyes snap to the street ahead, and there it is. One of the troop trucks, barrelling straight toward the village’s main artery. Too fast, no cover, no support.

Perfect.

You aim.

One breath.

One shot.

The round cracks out of your rifle and hits the driver through the windshield. The truck jerks, swerves, slams into a pile of rubble with a scream of twisting metal and shattered glass.

The impact lifts the front wheels, crushes the hood. The doors swing open, dazed mercenaries spilling out like insects from a broken shell.

“FIRE!” you bellow, and your Lions answer.

The street becomes fire and ****.

Bullets rip through the truck’s shell. The first two out of the cab fall before they even hit the ground. A third tries to crawl under but a clean burst cuts him down.

“FAN OUT!” you roar. “FIRE IN BURSTS! DON’T WASTE SHOTS!”

Your boots move without thought, you're already charging down the line, checking formations, pulling a wounded fighter behind cover, reloading like your hands don’t belong to you.

The enemy starts returning fire.

Dust sprays. Stone chips. A man screams and clutches his leg as he drops beside you.

You shoot back without blinking.

A blur of smoke, sand, and screaming steel. Every sound is muffled by the blood pounding in your ears. Every shot, every scream, every ****, it becomes rhythm. You live in the music of it now.

A man to your left catches a bullet in the neck, his body goes limp, eyes still wide, mouth trying to scream but only blood coming out. You grab his rifle and toss it to a boy with no weapon.

"KEEP MOVING!" you shout.

The line isn't a line anymore. Your people are behind overturned market carts, ancient doorframes, sandbag lumps and piles of bones disguised as barricades.

You kick in a door and find a sniper crammed inside a closet-sized window perch. She's thirteen. Calm. Controlled. She's humming a folk song as she reloads.

You nod at her. She nods back. That’s the entire exchange.

You step back outside into the maelstrom.

The enemy pushes forward, some of them screaming orders, some of them just screaming. They’re not as tight as they were in the beginning. Your people have made them bleed.

You duck a burst of gunfire, roll into a ditch that used to be someone’s herb garden, and slide beside a wounded man. Hassan.

He’s gasping, but alive. Shoulder torn open.

“I’m not dying today,” he growls.

“No,” you grunt, hauling him up.

You drag him back into cover, yelling for a medic. Someone takes him. You never see who.

You're back on your feet before the gunfire slows.

And that's when you hear it. That sound.

The thunder of treads grinding on Zahiri stone.

Your eyes snap up. Past the fire. Past the truck carcass.

The tank.

It’s pushing forward now, slow but sure, barrel turning with mechanical menace. The whine of hydraulics. The click of **** being dialed in.

You start to move, shouting. "FALL BACK FROM CENTER LINE! BACK! BACK NOW!"

But you're too close. Too far forward.

You pivot and the world erupts.

Silence.