The air reeked of burnt earth, thick with the chemical scent of recently spent ammunition. The ground, a mix of mud, rock, and human debris, shook faintly with the force of battle and the sound of retreating artillery. Explosions had whistled and shrieked through the wind only moments ago, but now there was a chilling silence.

Soldiers remained huddled, their shoulders hunched like prehistoric animals bracing for a storm. They clutched their rifles tightly across their chests, every muscle tensed, anxiously awaiting the next command that might send them back into the abyss. The atmosphere was a blinding mist of dust and ash; visibility was nonexistent beyond the immediate terrain sprawled before them. Every breath was fear.

A sharp, panicked voice had cried, "We’re surrounded!"

It was the last thing anyone heard before the turmoil began. Men, barely-trained boys, really, scrambled desperately for cover, but many fell instantly, their bodies collapsing into the ground. The cries of the dying were quickly drowned out by the sound of cannons that ceased as quickly as they began. It was a brief hell unleashed on Earth, a battle that lasted only long enough to prove how quickly life could be unmade.

Moments later, the battlefield was silent once more. The silence was not the peaceful type; it was heavy, suffocating with hundreds of newly dead. It was the sound of complete defeat.

The terrain was unrecognizable now. Personal belongings lay abandoned: a bent spoon, a tin of dried rations, a discarded boot, and, most haunting, shattered family photographs scattered across the mud. Bullet holes decorated the surviving walls and trees. It was clear, war hadn’t just defeated them but had scoured the land clean of its history and meaning.

Markov stood on the cliff’s edge, as a solitary figure against the ruined sky, surveying the town. Below, the worn-out flag of the Red Army fluttered weakly in the cold wind, its crimson ends tainted with the fresh blood of the fallen: a flag of which he was the master. He was like a force of nature in a pressed, dark uniform, a man who had designed this destruction for what he called "order."

He smiled, a tight, humourless drawing back of the lips that never reached his eyes, turning to Maurice, his second-in-command.

“Burn everything in this region,” he instructed, his voice low but precise, cutting through the smoke like a sharpened blade. “Spare nothing. I want the ground not just taken, but cleansed. I want the memory erased.”

Maurice, a tall man whose eyes had seen too much, stammered, “Sir, the laws of engagement... the Geneva protocols... they state we must allow for—”

Before Maurice could finish the word, Markov moved. Quickly, he gripped Maurice’s collar tightly, pulling him forward until their noses were inches apart. Maurice whimpered, the fear of his commander eclipsing the fear of death itself.

“If I have to repeat myself, Maurice,” Markov hissed, his breath hot and dry. “Your family burns first. Every picture, every trinket, every memory. Do you understand what that means for your bloodline?”

Maurice swallowed hard, a barely audible sound. "Y-Yes, Sir. Completely understood,” he whispered, his eyes wide.

Markov released him abruptly, allowing him to stumble backward onto the hard, uneven ground. Markov fastidiously dusted off a small smudge of ash from his cuff as if the entire exchange had been an inconvenience. No feelings crossed his face. He was already gone, his mind focused only on the next step of total annihilation. Maurice scrambled to his feet, saluted a trembling hand, and sprinted toward the ravaged village to carry out the deadly, impossible order.

In the village, the air became sick with iron, burning straw, and melting plastic. The sounds of people pleading were soon dissolved into the relentless firing squad's voices. Children begged for mercy, their voices high and thin, only to be dismissed like feral animals. Families held tightly to each other, their final, futile embraces swallowed by the roaring flames of their homes. 

Markov walked through the commotion, utterly unfazed by the chaos he had unleashed. Soldiers laughed, their faces blackened by soot and greed, looting the terrified inhabitants of their possessions. What difference did it make? They were bound to die anyway; why let a good watch or a warm coat go to waste?

The scene was a visceral attack on the senses: the stench of burning hair, the dizzying smell of spilled grain and cheap wine, the persistent buzz in the air. Markov passed a junior officer carelessly kicking a shattered family portrait, a woman and two smiling children, into a blazing fire. The deep, heavy blood prints his boots carried seemed to mock the faint, silver outline of the locket concealed beneath his coat.

His gaze flickered to the mass piled near the square. He felt nothing but a cold, hard sense of duty. For as duty demanded. For as long as he could remember, he had dreamt of conquering this land, not out of malice or greed, but out of a twisted sense of national necessity, to create a safe, stable, and purified world for his people. The cost, he had long ago decided, was irrelevant when placed against the security of the homeland.

He pulled out the worn locket attached to a tarnished silver chain. With a thick, calloused thumb, he traced the faded image of his deceased wife and his daughter, Annie. The metal was warm from being nestled against his skin beneath the thick wool of his coat.

"I will protect you, my loves," he murmured, his voice cracking only slightly. “I promise this wasteland will be scoured clean to become your paradise.”

"Sir!"

The sharp interruption shattered the moment. Markov instantly replaced the locket back into the pocket of his coat. 

The soldier saluted sharply, his face flushed with the exertion of the search. "We've discovered survivors, Commander. Two, a boy and a girl. They're hidden near the western ridge in an old medical van. What are your orders?"

Markov didn't respond immediately. He walked past the man, his boots squeaking in the mud. His gaze was fixed on the ridge, his body moving with tension.

“Step aside,” he commanded. “I will handle them myself. The final loose ends are mine.” He needed to be the end of it all. He needed to ensure the job was finished, that no potential seed of future resistance was allowed to sprout.

The transport van was crudely concealed against a cluster of blackened rocks; its corrugated exterior was severely rusty and worn, its few small windows covered with dust. Markov moved cautiously along the van's sides, the metal radiating heat that faintly burned against his fingers. He could hear the shallow breathing from inside.

He moved to the rusty cargo door, testing the latch. It was bolted from the inside. “Open up!” he growled, his voice a low threat that had silenced entire ranks of men.

Silence. The shallow breathing stopped instantly.

One... two... three. 

With a swift, powerful kick at the handle, the old door burst open. He raised his heavy rifle, prepared to fire into the dark interior. But his trigger finger froze.

His breath hitched in his throat.

Before him were two children huddled together in the furthest corner. They were covered in the gray dust of their hiding place, and their eyes held deep fear. The boy was perhaps ten, thin, and his face was grimy. The girl was no older than six or seven. They looked like ghosts.

His grip tightened on the rifle, the wood and cold metal suddenly strange in his hand. The sight of the girl caused a leap in his chest. She looked like Annie.

Her face was stained with clean tears, shining brightly, tears that Markov felt an overwhelming ache to wipe away. Her dress was filthy and torn, the material was so thin that it seemed to be moments away from dissolving completely.

The boy, however, did not beg. He rose slowly, stiffly, moving with an unnatural, desperate courage to stand directly before his sister, shielding her with his fragile body. He began yelling rapidly, fiercely, in a foreign language Markov barely understood.

Markov’s fingers tensed on the trigger. Make the kill, Markov. End the threat. Finish the job. Protect your future. Protect Annie's memory. Do it.

The boy repeated himself, his voice cracking, but his eyes meeting Markov’s with defiance. He switched to broken English. We've lost everything. Do it, Commander. You will only be finishing the job."

The request targeted his heart. The gun felt heavy and worthless. He slowly lowered his weapon, the barrel pointing toward the floor, and turned his focus entirely to the girl behind the boy.

She held a lotus flower between her hands. It was the only object of purity in the van, still beautifully intact, though its delicate stem was bent at an impossible angle. It was white and pale pink, possessing an ethereal beauty that struck Markov. He could not, he realized, destroy such a thing of beauty. 

He crouched low, his knees cracking and protesting against the sudden movement. He reached out and gently brushed a stray, tear-damp strand of hair from her face. The skin was cold beneath his touch.

"Annie..." he choked out, his voice made an unrecognizable sound. “I’m sorry. For everything.”

He stared past her, out the open van door at the column of black smoke that now choked the village. The smoke formed an eerie atmosphere as if judging him. He stared down at his own hands, scarred, filthy, and capable of cruelty, and then back at the ghost of his daughter before him.

A wave hit him. With a desperate, frustrated grunt, he slammed the butt of his rifle into a nearby metal cabinet, the deafening crash echoing in the confined space. He refused to meet the children’s eyes, unwilling to show them the anger that had driven him to this life.

"Get out," he yelled, barely audible.

The boy flinched, clutching his sister closer. "Sir, please—"

"GET OUT!" Markov roared, the sound filling the small space, forcing them to look at his terrifying face. “Run! Run and don't stop!”

The boy seized his sister’s hand and sprinted from the van, their thin, ragged forms vanishing into the smoke. As they left, he spotted the lotus flower, the girl had dropped. It lay on the metal floor, shining beautifully in the moonlight filtering through the smoke. He reached for it, lifting it with trembling hands and cradling it gently against his chest.

Suddenly, the interior of the van seemed to shimmer. The dirty walls peeled back, replaced by the soft, warm light of his home study. Annie, his little Annie, was sitting up in her bed, her small face solemn, looking directly at him with those knowing eyes.

“You know, Daddy,” she said, her voice clear, resonating with a wisdom beyond her years. “The Lotus flower grows through the mud. It doesn't let the bad stop it from reaching the light and blooming. That’s what you did when mommy passed away; you kept going. You were strong. You were born through mud, and you still bloom.”

Markov reached out for the vision, embracing his daughter, burying his face in the softness of her hair, feeling her small body. "And so would you someday, my love," he whispered to the memory, tears finally streaming down his cheeks, wetting the petals of the flower in his hand.

The memory snapped, fractured by the sound of cold rain that poured down outside. He scrambled to his feet, grabbed his rifle, and sprinted toward his comrades, the lotus flower held tightly against his chest. 

He searched frantically through the smoky terrain for the children, but the world was moving too fast. The Red Army soldiers, executing his own orders, had reflexively fired at the figures fleeing into the open darkness.

He pushed past the gathering crowd of men, stumbling, ignoring the agonizing emotional pain that seized him with every step, the pain of a man who had finally seen his soul reflected in his actions. He reached the edge of the firelight. The boy lay in a muddy puddle, lifeless, his small hand still reaching.

But the girl, his Annie, was still breathing. The heavy rain plastered her hair to her pale cheeks, making them seem momentarily rosier and desperately alive. Markov fell to his knees beside her, pulling her close to his chest, the ruined lotus pressed between her damp clothing and his uniform. He cried then, making a choking sound he hadn't made since he was a boy, crying for her, for Annie, and for the man he used to be.

She opened her eyes one last time, finding his, and whispered, her voice barely a breath against the sound of the rain: "You were born through mud, and you still bloom."

Her blue eyes smiled sadly before closing for eternity.

Markov staggered backward, the girl’s cold, light body slipping from his embrace. He stared around him, the lifeless eyes of the boy, the gentle face of the girl who had his daughter's image. The truth settled over him.

He had ruined them all. His ruthless conquest, his pursuit of a clean world, had only resulted in the annihilation of the last trace of innocence and beauty he had encountered. The cycle of his self-betrayal was complete.

He raised his rifle, not at the soldiers, not at a target, but straight up toward the turbulent, weeping sky. He pressed the cold muzzle against his temple. He pulled the trigger.

And for the first time in his life, and for the first time in years, the battlefield was silent.