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墨書 Inktalez
Carter took a deep breath, his fingers gripping the loudspeaker tightly as he fought to suppress the tremor within him. His throat felt dry, and it was as if a massive stone weighed down on his chest, making it nearly impossible to speak.
Yet he spoke anyway.
"I remember the last day I was on the battlefield. The weather was terrible, gray and gloomy, as if the entire sky had broken down. Dark clouds loomed overhead, and a persistent drizzle fell, cold and damp, hitting my face and soaking my clothes, making me feel utterly uncomfortable."
He paused for a moment, his throat slightly constricting before he continued.
"Our battalion had already lost two companies."
As soon as those words left his mouth, the crowd fell silent. Some furrowed their brows, while others couldn't help but gasp.
"And our infantry unit, which originally had over a hundred men, by that day..." Carter let out a low laugh that held no trace of humor—only exhaustion and pain. "More than half had already perished."
"By that time, the war was actually nearing its end." His voice was deep, reminiscent of recalling a distant nightmare. "We had been fighting for too long; everyone was exhausted—not just physically but mentally... that kind of fatigue that seeps into your bones, leaving you with barely enough strength to lift your rifle."
"Our unit underwent constant reorganization and consolidation. At first, the familiar faces of comrades around us slowly turned into strangers, and then those unfamiliar faces began to disappear one by one. Eventually, we stopped asking each other’s names because we knew it was pointless; in a few days, they would be dead in some trench, becoming another vacancy to fill."
Carter paused again, feeling his hands tremble slightly, but he pressed on.
"I remember that day when we sat in the transport vehicle. It was very quiet inside; no one spoke. The only sounds were the hum of the diesel engine and the wheels crunching through the mud." He looked down at his empty palms as if he could still feel the heavy touch of the rifle stock from that time. "We knew that this trip wasn’t about fighting; we were just going in to be the cleanup crew."
A frown appeared among the crowd. "Cleanup crew?" someone repeated softly, their tone laced with confusion and unease.
Carter raised his head, his gaze shadowed with a deep intensity.
"The opposing forces were no longer capable of mounting an effective counterattack. Their troops were scattered; the front lines had collapsed. Only scattered remnants and refugees remained trapped in the ruins without food, supplies, or even weapons."
"And our mission was to go in and take care of all those who hadn’t yet died."
A few gasps echoed through the crowd, the earlier fervor and passion fading, replaced by an indescribable heaviness.
But Carter did not stop.
"We are soldiers, not executioners," his voice was somewhat hoarse, as if suppressing an unspeakable emotion. "But that day, our orders were to eliminate every enemy still capable of moving, to ensure the battlefield was 'clean.'"
He lifted his head, his gaze sweeping over those who awaited his words—people who had never set foot on a battlefield yet were eager to discuss war.
"What do you think war is?" His tone carried a hint of indifference and sarcasm. "Is it heroes charging into battle, flags waving, the glory of victory? No—war ultimately ends in slaughter."
"It is we, the so-called soldiers, sent to clean up those who can no longer fight."
His voice was deep and hoarse, yet deafening.
"When I stepped onto the battlefield," Carter's voice was steady but restrained, holding back an ineffable emotion, "I still remembered my fervent spirit."
"We set out with conviction, believing we were righteous, that we were defending our country, our freedom, and those we love." His gaze drifted slightly away, as if looking into a long-lost past. "But when I left..."
He paused for a moment, inhaling softly; his voice became slightly choked. "All I brought back was death—nothing else."
"I did not bring back glory, did not bring back victory, did not bring back anything worth being proud of." He gripped the megaphone tightly, the veins on the back of his hand slightly bulging. "What I brought back were only corpses, only those I had killed, those who died beside me—their shadows, their blood, their curses."
"I have no glory to speak of."
The crowd fell silent. Some who had just moments ago been filled with fervor now wore expressions of rigidity; a few began to murmur softly while others shifted uneasily.
But Carter did not stop.
"When I finally returned alive from that hell, I felt grateful to have survived," he said, a cold smile creeping onto his lips, tinged with self-mockery. "But soon enough, I realized that surviving didn't mean it was over; surviving was just another form of punishment."
"In order to get the country 'back on its feet' as quickly as possible, troop numbers were rapidly reduced. No one cared that we weren't ready; no one cared how we were supposed to return to normal life." His tone hardened, almost laced with anger. "We were driven out of the barracks, cast out from the only world we knew, forced to face a society that no longer belonged to us."
"The pension is pitifully small, not even enough to buy a decent apartment." His voice echoed in the silent crowd. "What about our medical assistance? What about our psychological counseling? What has the government given us?!"
"They gave us this."
He raised his hand, reaching into his shirt collar to pull out a dog tag hanging around his neck.
The metal tag swayed gently with his movement, catching the dim sunlight and glinting with a cold sheen.
"This is my life," he said, his voice lowering, his gaze deep as an endless well. "A dog tag, a number—like a piece of used military equipment marked for identification and then discarded."
He held up the dog tag, opening his palm for everyone to see it. Once a symbol of his existence, it now lay cold and lifeless in his hand.
"This is me," he whispered, devoid of rage but filled with profound exhaustion. "This is the fate of all of us."
At first, the crowd listened in silence, the atmosphere frozen by Carter's words, suspended in an unspoken heaviness.
But the silence lasted only a few seconds before it erupted.
"Is this how they treat our heroes?! Is this the government's way of saying thank you?!"
"We pay taxes, and they let those who fought for the country end up on the streets?! What is this?!"
"He gave everything for this country, and in the end, he can't even support his family?! Damn the government!"
The roar of voices rose and fell, as the people who had once been whispering began to shout in anger, like a flood breaking through a dam, sweeping through the entire street in an instant.
Some raised their fists, waving them in the air while loudly cursing the politicians sitting in their high towers; others reached out to pat Carter on the shoulder, firmly and with a rugged respect. "You’re a true warrior, brother! You shouldn’t be treated this way!"
There were those who grasped Carter's hand, their eyes shining with excitement and sympathy, and some even embraced him directly.
Carter found himself enveloped by this sudden wave of warmth. He could feel countless hands touching him, patting his back and arms, while others gently brushed against his chest, as if comforting him or seeking some strength from within him.
He had never experienced anything like this before.
His throat tightened, and for a moment he didn’t know what to say.
But he didn’t need to say anything—because the crowd had already taken over the conversation.
"Those damn politicians don’t care about us at all!"
"They only send money to those foreign trash while letting our soldiers starve!"
"We want to change all of this! We want those sons of bitches in office to see that the people of this country are the real bosses!"
The angry voices surged down the street like an invisible storm, growing more violent and more uncontrollable.
Francis Rain stood off to the side, a slight smile on his lips as he surveyed the blaze ignited by Carter. A glimmer of profound light flickered in his eyes.
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