"Wars can be fought, but they can never truly be won."
The gravity of this statement, an idea which the young man had heard many times before, had perhaps never truly registered with him. He was not alone in his oversight. He had spent his entire life in preparation for war, training alongside his best friend, Tinol. The two, now twenty years old, had spent years practicing their drills with fierce devotion for their unit. Neither of them truly grasped that solemn truth.
The Warning
The day they finally joined the army, Bayan and Tinol were bursting with unbridled excitement. They stood in the barracks, shining their armour, talking loudly about the coming glory.
An Old Soldier with countless scars, who was silently sharpening his blade nearby, looked up at their boundless energy.
"You two are very excited for this war," the Old Soldier said, his voice flat and weary. "Do yourselves a favour. Once the fighting is done, don't celebrate. Go to the houses of the men who didn't come back. Ask their mothers, their children, and their wives how wonderful it is to go to war, to fight in a war. Then you will find your answer about the true importance of war."
Bayan and Tinol had barely listened, dismissing it as the rambling of a broken man. The dream of becoming a greater soldier was too bright to be dimmed by an old soldier's misery.
The Destroyer
A week later, the orders arrived. The first battle was a victory, filling them with false pride.
The second phase of the war began soon after. Bayan fought with his usual fervor until, in the middle of the deafening chaos, his world shattered. He saw a sudden spear thrust plunge deep into Tinol's chest.
Bayan screamed, though no sound escaped his own lips. He lunged immediately towards his friend, desperate to shield him. But another enemy soldier crossed his path. Bayan instinctively blocked the blow and, with a trained, brutal efficiency, killed the attacker.
He turned back to Tinol—but he was too late.
The first attacker had already pulled the bloody spear out, only to plunge it back in again for a final, decisive blow. Tinol fell.
Bayan froze. The world went silent, his mind consumed by a sharp, clear memory:
They were seventeen again, swearing in the training yard. "Bayan, wait and see! When I become a great Commander, I'll make you my General!" Tinol had declared. Bayan had laughed. "For you, not just a General, Tinol! I'll be anything you need. Just become that Commander!"
The memory vanished. Bayan's eyes remained fixed on his fallen friend. From his lips, only one broken sentence escaped, a final, despairing whisper lost to the surrounding violence: "Oh, my General."
Bayan was submerged in shock. He was utterly detached from his surroundings. The man who swore to stand by him for life was gone, and that was the only truth that existed. He did not register the nearby swords or the possibility of a fatal wound to himself.
Just as an enemy soldier raised a sword to deliver a fatal blow to Bayan's exposed neck, a fellow comrade managed to pull him back violently, dragging him away from the front line.
The Stinging Reality
Bayan fell to the ground in the rear of the camp. As the war eventually died down around him, he was left lying alone.
A sudden, cold dampness soaked into his clothes. When he instinctively raised his hand to his side, he felt a sticky, visceral wetness. He looked down—his hand was entirely coated in red, thick blood. He looked at the ground beneath him. The dust and earth had been entirely painted in a gruesome shade of red. It was all blood.
It was in that moment, the shock of the physical sensation, that the realization struck him: This was not merely Tinol's blood. This was the blood of the men he had killed, the men who were simply fighting for their own side.
How many families had I destroyed? he thought, staring at the dark red stain. I didn't just kill a single man; I killed a father, a son, a brother—a whole family's future.
He had never fought for his people; he had only fought for the glory of war itself. The old soldier's warning about the homes of the dead men suddenly echoed with terrifying clarity.
The Victory March
The surrounding reality—filled with the sound of drunken celebration—forced its way back in. Bayan got up unsteadily, looking around at the scattered bodies of their own unit.
The Commander arrived, his voice booming with forced triumph:
"Hear me, soldiers! Rejoice! We have captured the great city of Aerilon! We have protected our people! This is the glory you have earned!"
Bayan, fueled by shock and grief, stumbled forward, confronting the Commander.
"Sir," Bayan's voice was strained, cutting through the celebration. "You say we have protected our people, but what about the people who died in the process? What about the thousands of our own men lying here? We saved the city, but who will save the families of the fallen soldiers?"
The Commander's eyes hardened. "Men die in battle, soldier. It's the cost of war. But we cannot abandon our joy just because of a few dead men. We must celebrate the victory we have earned."
Bayan stood his ground. "They deserve respect, sir! Not to be forgotten in a drunken revelry!"
The Commander placed a heavy hand on Bayan's shoulder. "If we were to mourn every fallen man, every single day, we would never celebrate a thing. Every day is war, soldier. Every day brings death. This is the truth of life in this army."
Bayan staggered back, the Commander's brutal words shattering the last of his lifelong ambitions. The war he had sought was not one that could ever be won. The life he had dreamed of was nothing more than dancing too close to Death.