I glance at the faces as they return from the trenches and we resume our position in the assembly hall. Some of them have bandages around their foreheads, on their arms, on their legs. Some come back missing an arm. Some come back on stretchers. None of them are dead. The dead ones are left on the field, hastily buried under the snow. There’s no time to care for them.

The infamous Commander Dzyuba—a tall, slim man, with a clean-shaven face and a bald head—looks us over with a cold stare. The folds of skin over his brows are so pronounced they make his forehead look like a puckered anus. While Smolov took the time to trudge through the snow and personally handle the bodies, Dzyuba simply lined us up and counted to see how many were left, determining that seventeen lives had been lost.

Maksim Maksimov is standing at parade rest right behind the commander, wearing a stout look. He hasn’t been looking in my direction, which is a good sign. He probably hasn’t found out.

I lean to look at Donkey, who’s standing in the same line as I am. He survived through the battle without so much as a single scratch on him. Almost everyone would consider Donkey to be lucky, but apparently Donkey doesn’t. The dude is visibly shaken. His colossal body trembles and his skin is a pallid, ghastly tint of white.

Dzyuba is not going to like this. I sure as fuck don’t want to be Donkey right now. It doesn’t take long for the commander to notice Donkey pissing his pants in fear. In an impatient voice, he asks, “You. What’s wrong with you?”

“M-m-my . . .” Donkey stutters.

“Your what?”

“My . . friend . . . Alexandr . . . H—he is . . .”

“What? Dead?”

“Y—yes . . . It went bang . . . and he got it on his . . . his lung . . .”

He can’t hold it together anymore. His face twists and crumples right in front of the commander. Things are going to get ugly.

“Stop it.” Dzyuba whispers. This isn’t the first time we’ve seen this. It isn’t like Dzyuba to sprinkle mercy on anyone, even if that person is his henchman’s henchman.

“S—Sir?” Donkey trembles.

“Stop bawling.”

“Sir . . . I—I can’t . . .”

Stop!” Dzyuba roars as he throws his notebook into Donkey’s face. His voice isn't intimidating, but the way red flares creep up his neck sure is. “Are you really sulking now? Are you a Russian or a Finn?” Dzyuba throws his hands into the air. “Look at everyone else! Just look at them! Do you see any one of them acting like a cretin?”

“N—no . . .” Donkey chews on his lips as if he wants to rip it off.

“Then stop it. Don’t goddamn shame us like this. Do you think, if you cry in their faces, the enemy are just going to drop their guns and tell you ‘It’s alright, we’ll spare you and your friends,’ and lock arms with you and dance the plyaska? Act like a goddamn man and stop demoralizing everyone.”

Donkey doesn’t stop. He’s trying so hard to hold it in by shutting his eyes, but all it does is squeeze a fewdrops of liquid out.

That’s the most resemblance to a human tear I’ve ever seen coming from a man.

Uh oh.

Dzyuba takes a step back, chuffing. “Don’t you dare, son. We’re men, not useless scraps.”

The commander walks to the end of the line. To be more exact, he walks to my position. He tries to rattle me with his gaze, but I’m a head taller than him and standing still as a rock, rendering his effort ineffective. His voice is apathetic as he says. “I heard you defied authority in our battle today, son.”

Man, he’s really getting on my nerves. I didn’t see his damn face out in the battlefield for two days, and he’s out here preaching at me about insubordination.

“He didn’t defy orders, Sir. I was the one . . .” Petrov tries to intervene. Why does he even bother? Is everyone off their rockers today?

“Did I give you the right to talk over me, Lieutenant?” Dzyuba glares at him, his beady eyes pierce through the lieutenant commander. Petrov shuts up, like the coward he is.

“I’ll have a talk with you later, Petrov,” Dzyuba shoots out the side of his mouth. He turns to me and asks, as he taps his boot on the floor, “Now, Vronsky. Did you, or did you not, take charge for Section B4 today?”

I reply, “I did, Sir.”

“Vronsky. Vronsky, Vronsky, Vronsky.” The tapping of his foot hastens. “You’re quite a skilled fighter, aren’t you?”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

“Thanks to your guidance, Sir.”

The tapping stops. Dzyuba points to Donkey on the other end of the line. “Beat him up.”

“Pardon?” I need to ask again. Surely that’s too much even for the infamous Dzyuba? I want to check the expression on the other dudes’ faces, but I know better than turning away when the commander is talking.

“Did I stutter?” He frowns. “He needs to man up. There’s no place for worthless worms in my army. Teach him a lesson, and I won’t delve any further into your defiance today. You don’t want any trouble now, do you, Second Lieutenant?”

I start to answer him but, with a sudden movement, he pushes his face close enough to reveal a threatening pair of fangs and green veins bulging on his forehead.

Fangs and green veins? I’m pretty sure normal humans don’t have those. They appear for a split second before vanishing, so I don’t even know if I saw correctly.

Is he a war machine? I didn’t know they produce types with fangs nowadays.

He whispers, low enough so only I can hear. “You know I’m keeping an eye on you, don’t you, boy?”

Keep your calm. Keep your calm, Vronsky. It’s just a figure of speech. This man knows nothing.

“Understood,” I reply. Keep your calm and don’t punch him.

Nobody questions Dzyuba’s resolution. Nobody disagrees with him—his decision is final.

As I step near to where Donkey is standing, the men surrounding him step back to make way. Cold sweat runs down Donkey’s forehead. His trembling hands clench into fists.

“P—please . . .,” he mutters so quietly only I can hear.

I roll up my sleeves. “Sorry, buddy. You brought it on yourself. Don’t fight back, it’ll end soon.”

I land a few punches. He tries to block the first few, but my movements are much faster. My third punch lands on his belly. He totters before falling.

“Don’t stop! Don’t stop!” Dzyuba screams. The man must be having an episode again. He’s fucking bipolar.

I jump on the writhing man and start smacking into his face. His lip quivers as he emits faint, incoherent sentences. Is he begging for mercy? I feel a smidgen of pity for him. But it’s not my place to side with anyone but the one giving me my orders.

I'm not the type to hurt anyone without a reason. That’s what I tell myself. I’m only doing what I was told. That’s what I tell myself.

But boy, does it feel good.

This is what you want, Alexei Vronsky. This is what you’re born to do—a fighting machine, a mere tool. You don’t need friends, you don’t need comrades, you don’t need any . . .

As the mixture of blood and saliva gushes from Donkey’s mouth and spews on my face, I can even hear buoyant cheers from other men. I look down at my blood-soaked knuckles. Red liquid drips from the tip of my fingers.

What are you doing, Alexei? What would Roman think seeing you like this? What would that woman think seeing you like this?

No, this is not me. I’m not who they made me to be. I am me.

I turn back to Commander Dzyuba. His teeth are bared, his fists clenched; green veins creep all over his neck. He doesn’t even bother hiding them anymore. So I wasn’t imagining things.

“Why did you stop?” he roars.

“Guy’s unconscious.”

“So? Did I tell you to stop?”

“No. But—”

“Then. Keep. Hitting.” He points to Donkey.

Dzyuba’s the kind of person to have occasional sadistic kicks, but even by his standards, this is way over the top! It almost feels like he’s trying to get rid of this dude.

There’s no other voice besides Dzyuba. When he speaks, nobody else dares to interrupt. That’s how they deal with him—just wait until he has vented all his frustration. He would typically calm down, retreat to his room, and show up the next day with an equanimity like nothing ever happened.

I don’t want that. Why should I listen to this pathetic excuse of a man bossing me around? Should I do something about it?

I can’t lay a hand on him right now. I am not to raise any suspicion while carrying out my assignment. If Dzyuba wants me to punch one, two, ten unconscious dudes, I’m gonna do it. But once this is all done and over with, I’ll make sure the commander will be the one squirming on the ground.

“What’s with all the commotion?” Vice Commander Smolov cries out— the one voice I want to hear the most. I can even hear non-existent sighs of relief from the crowd. If there’s anyone who Dzyuba will listen to during his rage, it will be Smolov. Not necessarily because he agrees with the Vice Commander, but because he knows the crowd will listen to Smolov—even if they have to choose.

“Wonderful!” Dzyuba throws his hands in the air. “Look who finally decided to show up! Was counting the corpses that big of a task for you?”

Smolov glances at me, at the noiseless crowd, and finally at Donkey’s motionless body on the floor. “What happened?”

“Vice Commander, Sir,” I say. “Commander Dzyuba ordered me to teach him a lesson.”

“By beating up the poor kid? What’s he done wrong?”

“He shamed us all,” exclaims Dzyuba. “Fucking brat, he tried to cry. I’ve never been this ashamed in my damn life! And I’m being merciful here. That brat deserves more, more!”

I wait for Smolov’s answer as he studies the commander’s expression. What would I want him to say? Crying is a sin? Keep beating the defenseless dude until he can no longer walk?

Maybe. They all think that way anyway.

“The kid’s had enough,” says Smolov as he turns to the crowd. “Now I tell you, the kid is wrong, but this is not the best way to settle it. We all know that every capable hand is an asset to this facility. I’ll have a talk with the boy tomorrow. He’s probably having improper ideas and needs a bit of correction, that’s all.” He turns back to Dzyuba. “You should get back to your room, comrade. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“You and your soft-ass ways. You are why they become like this! Anton, my friend, you better hide the fatass well. I swear, if I see his face again, I’ll murder him.” Dzyuba is done. He mutters something under his breath, turns his back, and leaves. I stifle a sigh. I’m off the hook for today. Why did he even hassle me? What did I ever do besides saving their asses over and over? I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do here.

As Dzyuba disappears into the corridor, Smolov raises his voice to the crowd. “Alright boys. Nothing to see here. Go back to your rooms. C’mon, off you go!”

I turn to Donkey. His limbs are akimbo, the blood at the corners of his mouth has dried, and his eyes are swollen from the punches.

A couple of buttons from his shirt might have flown off during the fight since they’re scattered everywhere on the floor. I have a strange urge to pick one of them up.

I think I almost crippled the dude.