POV : WASTELAND
The three British soldiers stumbled through the forest, hearts pounding in their chests as they escaped the carnage behind them. Their breaths came ragged, each gasp filled with the smell of blood, sweat, and the ever-present decay of the wasteland. The battlefield had been a nightmare—Nadir’s soldiers with greedy eyes chasing them, mutated rhinoceroses trampling everything in their path, and ghouls scavenging for flesh.
Each step felt heavier than the last as their wounds caught up with them. Second lieutenant Stevens, usually the strongest of the three, had slowed to a crawl. His face was pale, his eyes half-closed with exhaustion.
“Save yourself, Private Ryan,” he wheezed, his voice hoarse with pain.
“No way,” Ryan shot back, his voice cracking slightly. He forced a grin despite the terror gnawing at his insides. “We can make it together, Stevens.”
Their pace had become painfully slow, and Thompson trying to keep morale up, asked. “Why does he keep calling you Private Ryan? Isn’t your name Harris?”
Ryan, aka Harris, managed a tired chuckle. “It’s because I look so much like the actor.”
Thompson snorted through his labored breaths. “Shit, let’s call you Forrest then. That was a much better movie.”
Second lieutenant Stevens, despite the pain etched across his face, let out a rasping laugh. The sound was weak, almost fragile, but it felt like a victory in the face of everything they’d endured. For a brief moment, the oppressive weight of fear lifted as the three shared that fleeting levity.
***
But the wasteland didn’t care how they felt. The thick, twisted trees loomed over them like silent watchers, their branches gnarled and menacing. The shadows between the trunks stretched long and dark, as if the forest itself were waiting to swallow them whole.
“We’ve got to find somewhere to hole up,” Thompson said, his voice tight with anxiety. His eyes darted around, scanning the desolate landscape. “We don’t have any demon dog wards on us.”
“That’s true,” Ryan muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. His legs were trembling, both from exhaustion and fear. “Why don’t we find somewhere inaccessible, with only one entrance to defend?”
“Oh, you mean like that cave up ahead?” Thompson pointed toward a small, jagged opening nestled into a nearby grotto. Relief washed over them all. The cave was barely visible, hidden by the scraggly underbrush that had overrun the sandy dunes of their previous area.
The soldiers scrambled up the incline, their limbs heavy with fatigue. Every movement was slow, careful, and deliberate as they worked together to pull Stevens along. The mouth of the cave was small, barely wide enough for one man at a time. Inside, it was tight and cramped, the walls close enough that they brushed against the soldiers' shoulders. The air was cool and damp, a stark contrast to the oppressive heat outside, but it reeked of mildew and something faintly rotten.
Ryan crouched, his breathing shallow as he examined the narrow space. “It’s small, but it’ll do,” he said quietly, though his voice betrayed the strain of keeping his fear at bay.
The cave felt claustrophobic. The ceiling was low, forcing them to hunch slightly. The floor was uneven, littered with small stones and debris that made it uncomfortable to sit or lie down. Yet despite its discomfort, it offered something precious—safety. For the first time since the battle, they had walls around them.
“We should cover the entrance,” Thompson whispered. He was trying to keep his voice steady, but there was a tremor in it that he couldn’t hide. The terror of being hunted still gripped him, though they were out of sight for now.
They worked together, pulling branches and leaves to form a makeshift screen in front of the cave, trying to further obscure their presence without making too much noise. Each sound felt like a risk—a chance for something outside to hear them. Once they finished, they collapsed onto the cold cave floor, their bodies aching from exhaustion and injury.
The three men fumbled through their pockets, producing the last scraps of medical supplies they had. Bandages barely long enough to cover their wounds, and antiseptic that ran out too quickly were pulled out. It was a pitiful attempt at healing, but it was all they had.
Stevens winced as Ryan wrapped his wound with shaking hands. “God, this is not what I thought my life would be like a month ago when I was portaled into here.”
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“You were portaled here a month ago?” Ryan said, glancing up from his work. “I just got here a week ago, and I definitely didn’t expect this.”
Thompson leaned against the cave wall, the rough stone biting into his back. He chuckled weakly, though the sound held no real humor. “I’ve got to stop thinking of you as “Harris, aka Private Ryan”. From now on, I’m sticking with what the second lieutenant calls you. You’re officially Private Ryan to me too.”
Ryan tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His face was a mask of exhaustion. “Thanks,” he muttered. He’d heard jokes about his resemblance to the actor for most of his adult life. It just felt like a familiar jibe.
“What do you miss most about being home?” Ryan asked, more to distract himself from the gnawing fear than out of genuine curiosity.
Second lieutenant Stevens, who had closed his eyes in an attempt to rest, snapped them open. “Shut up, Private,” he said, his voice stern despite his weariness. “You don’t talk about that kind of thing. You’re throwing up death flags all over the place. I bet you’re going to say next that you’ve got a fiancée waiting for you, or you’re planning to retire.”
The three of them laughed, the sound was quiet and hollow, they were afraid of being too loud. They all knew the truth—tempting fate was dangerous in a world like this. And they couldn’t afford to hope for things that might never come.
As the silence settled around them, they exchanged glances, each wondering if they had already pushed their luck too far.
—
POV : CELESTIAL WAGER
Meanwhile, in the Celestial Wager Casino, the bored aliens caught the conversation. Xaltrax stretched his translucent arms, his three green eyes narrowing in disdain. “If only we could there were demon dogs right now. Watching this bunch of bums run through the forest and hide is so dull compared to Atlas and the Portal Crushers.
Virelia, the server with luminescent tendrils, grabbed a few empty drink bulbs with exaggerated grace. “It’s not that bad. I’m kind of enjoying it.” She tilted her head, amused. “All the episodes about Atlas show are just about how overpowered he is. Watching a group of normal people struggle through the wasteland reminds me of the earlier seasons.”
A massive alien with four bulky arms and stone-like skin chimed in. “Yeah, but that’s why THIS season is getting better ratings. Atlas is way more exciting than watching normal humans. How did they survive as a civilization for so long?”
“I don’t know,” Xaltrax said, shaking his head. “Have you seen their medical supplies? In their hospitals? They don’t have antigrav pods. Or any MediPods at all!
One alien, with iridescent purple skin and a set of antennae twitching spoke, "I can’t believe Earth’s hospitals actually look like that. Primitive, isn’t it? No recovery pods or neural repair units."
“Oh my god, it’s literally true!” Virelia laughed, her eyes twinkling. “They cut into humans to save them. With knives. Literally knives.”
The other alien, with a sleek metallic sheen and multifaceted eyes, nodded in agreement. "It’s like something out of an old documentary. Their technology is so outdated. The way they handle injuries—how quaint."
“I’m surprised they’re not still using leeches,” one of the other aliens snickered, and they all dissolved into laughter, mocking the primitive human methods.
The screen displayed bustling hospital corridors and outdated medical equipment, adding to the aliens’ amusement. "And they’re still using those clunky machines for diagnostics? How inefficient!"
Their conversation continued, filled with snarky observations about Earth's medical practices, highlighting the vast difference between Earth’s technology and the advanced systems found elsewhere in the universe.
‘‘‘
POV : WASTELAND
The very next morning, the three of them—grateful the death flags they had feared didn’t trigger—were exhausted from a night of panic and worry. They had taken turns sleeping, constantly worrying about being attacked. They began moving cautiously through the forest and undergrowth, heading back to their home: the Belief settlement. Their goal was critical—they needed to alert Oliver about the betrayal and an impending attack on their settlement. Anxiety gnawed at them over what might come next.
"Come on, we can make it. We're so close," private Ryan urged, his voice tight with fatigue.
The second lieutenant, still wounded, was being helped along by private Ryan and the other private. Their progress was slow as they trudged through the thick forest until suddenly, two skeletons attacked. The skeletons’ mouths opened in a soundless scream, rushing at them with unnerving speed. One of them wielded a rusty sword.
"Is that skeleton carrying a sword?!" private Ryan shouted, drawing his own blade. He swung, and their swords clashed in mid-air with a loud metallic clang. The undead’s unnatural strength forced Ryan backward, sending him tumbling onto his ass. He hit the ground hard.
The second skeleton took the chance to leap at him, its bony claws aimed at his throat, promising a quick death. Despite his injuries, Stevens acted fast, pulling out a crossbow and firing.
THWIP!
CRACK!
The bolt pierced the skeleton’s skull, shattering it into pieces. The creature collapsed in a heap of bones.
"Thanks, Stevens," Ryan gasped, scrambling to his feet and diving back into his fight. The other private swung his mace, striking the second skeleton in the ribs with a dull ‘thud’. But the skeleton didn’t feel pain. It paused only briefly before spinning around, its sword flashing as it slashed into Thompson’s arm.
"Motherf—!" Thompson yelled, gripping his bleeding arm.
Private Ryan seized the opportunity. As the skeleton spun, Ryan brought his sword down hard, splitting its skull with a final, resounding ‘crack‘. The skeleton collapsed into dust.
A few mana coins clinked onto the ground from the remains, and the three soldiers, weary and sore, picked them up. They quickly used the rest of their medical supplies and bandaged Thompson’s fresh wound, their movements shaky from exhaustion.
***
After another fifty minutes of hiking through the dense forest, they finally arrived back at the settlement. The sight of the stone walls made them all sigh in relief.
"We’re home. We made it!" Ryan said, his voice filled with disbelief.
The second lieutenant, who hadn’t expected to survive the ordeal, gave a weak smile. "We’ve got a report to make. It’s important."