The distant thunder of artillery rolled across the valley like a warning whispered by the earth itself. Smoke curled up from the smoldering remains of the eastern ridge, where the 3rd Battalion had made its final stand just hours before. In the choking haze of gunpowder and scorched soil, soldiers moved like shadows—faces smeared with soot, eyes hard from sleepless nights and too many losses.
The conflict had long outgrown its original cause. What began as a border dispute had unraveled into a brutal struggle for dominance, sovereignty, and survival. Villages once filled with laughter now echoed only with the drone of drones and the crackle of gunfire. Civilians fled, some caught in the crossfire, others vanishing into the chaos, stories cut short before they could be told.
On the western front, where the hills overlooked a once-bustling trade route, two factions clashed with a fury fed by years of betrayal and vengeance. Steel met steel, ideology met desperation, and in the middle stood a generation raised under the shadow of war, learning to navigate a world where peace was a luxury whispered in lullabies.
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