Lucian sat rigid as another odd sounding explosion rocked the small room. The memory of what had transpired mere minutes ago was still white-hot.


    He flung his blanket off and Proffered his right arm. He opened and closed his right hand. It was as if it had never been missing. There was no reason to check his eye; he was seeing perfectly, and his side seemed to be in working order as well.


    Lucian breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever had happened to him in the previous battle hadn''t transferred with him. Lastly, he pulled his mud-stained, dark green wool shirt back to peer downward at where his burn and knife scar were supposed to be. Pale, smooth skin lay pristinely where they had been.


    Huh. Lucian thought as he let go of his shirt. He rolled his shoulder and grinned. The absence of pain was immensely satisfying.


    Thinking back to the beach, he was pretty sure he knew what caused his death, but the voice, on the other hand... Lucian didn''t know what to make of it. Was it the proctor of whatever simulation they had him in? Was this all part of the testing? Lucian had no idea.


    Shaking his head, Lucian finally took in his surroundings. His bed was positioned in the back right corner of a dark, damp wooden room, and what he assumed to be his rifle, boots, and trench coat were left on the ground lazily next to his bed. More beds lay in rows up and down the room. Roughly fifty in total. Some beds were occupied, some weren''t. Drabby-looking men slept uneasily, their coats and rifles lay haphazardly on the ground. Lucian tried to look out of the doorway but it was shrouded in fog.


    Looking back at his gun, he noticed it looked similar to the one he had used on the beach, with a few varying details. The barrel was shorter but had a bayonet. The bolt on the top cover was longer, ending in a ball that jutted into the air. On the underside of the gun was a gray shoulder strap.


    Lucian sat up and tugged on his boots, then he rose to his feet and shrugged into his trench coat, hearing a clang from his left pocket. He thought about leaving his gun, but if he was on another battlefield, which seemed likely, he did not want to be unarmed. Plus, what the stranger had said still bit at him.


    "Please try and actually shoot back at the people trying to kill you."


    Asshole.


    He had no idea how it felt to have machine-gun fire rain down on you with little to no cover as you tried to run on ground that made your feet sink into it. Then again, maybe the stranger did. Who was Lucian to say? How many times had the stranger seen the battle on the beach play out with diffrent test takers?


    Come to think of it, that had been the first time Lucian had walked or ran on anything that wasn''t metal, wood, or concrete. It hadn''t registered until just now, On account of the impending death that had Waited for him at the time.


    Making up his mind, Lucian slung his rifle over his shoulder and stepped out into the fog.


    The sound of war was permeated by the sickly smell of rot, the sun barely peaking out of the foggy horizon.


    His boots squelched as he turned and surveyed his claustrophobic surroundings. A mix of half-rotted wood and mud surrounded him, extending as far as he could see both to his left and right. The earthy sent was new and pleasing to him, even with the undercurrent of rot. It was like a breath of truly fresh air. In front of him, the earth slanted up so someone could belly crawl to see outside of the trench, which is what some people were doing. Every so often, there were indents surrounded by barbed wire, each with a mounted gun operated by two soldiers in the middle.


    Every man was dressed the same as Lucian. A dark grey trench coat, dark green pants, and thick shirt, complemented by thick wool socks, dark brown boots, as well as mud brown wool gloves. They all had the same gun as Lucian slung over their shoulder as well. Lucian dug around in his pockets for his gloves, the cold begining to seep into through his coat, but he didn''t find anything other than loose ammo and a red-stained rag.


    He decided it would probably be a good idea to get his bearings outside of his trench, so he began to crawl up the slanted side of the trench. He was nearly to the top when an odd boom shook the earth. Lucian dropped to the slanted earth, waiting for another. It didn''t come. He checked the other soldiers'' faces to make sure he wasn''t going crazy. They looked the same, other than the rag they all had over their nose and mouth.


    Why would—Lucian''s thought was cut short by another odd sounding boom, this time further down the trench.


    Lucian didn''t really have much experience with battle, even with what he had been through on the beach. He had no notion of war tactics, but this seemed a little idiotic. Why would whoever was in charge of the enemy force waste bombs like this? The trench looked like it had been here for a while, so they must have it zeroed in by now—so what was the problem? Or rather, what was Lucian missing?


    Lucian scrambled the rest of the way to the top and gazed out onto pure carnage. Bodies, both new and old, littered the visible area, some dressed like Lucian, some in a muddied dark blue. Craters peppered the land, half filled with murky water. Ten feet in front of the trench was a barbed wire fence. Bodies dressed in dark blue stuck to the fence like flies all up and down the trench.


    Lucian''s stomach was doing somersaults; the stench of rot sunk deeper into his nose. But Lucian began to smell something else too. The only way Lucian knew to describe it was as onions. The air around Lucian began to turn yellow. He began to cough.


    "Hey, Lucky!" A tan man with dark hair behind Lucian shouted.


    Lucian thought he could make out where the smell was coming from. Around fifty feet away from the trench was a crater blooming with the yellow mist. More of the same craters were in a line, all exuding the same smoke.


    "Lucian!" The same voice that had called for Lucky shouted again. Still coughing, Lucian turned to one of the men now crouching at the bottom of the trench. The soldier who had called his name frantically gestured to the cloth that was around his head.


    "Mustard gas, you idiot! Put your mask on!"


    Lucian had no idea what mustard gas was, but judging by the man''s tone, it was no laughing matter. He hurriedly pulled out the red-stained cloth and tied it around his face. The man gestured for Lucian to come sit by him near the bottom of the slant. So with a little hesitation, Lucian slid down and did so.


    "Are you...crazy? Do you...wanna die?" The man puffed in between a coughing fit.


    "No, I... just wanted to see... where... the..." Lucian couldn''t finish his sentence; his coughing was more intense than the man''s.


    "I... told ya... Lucky." The man coughed. "...Shoulda come down. We''ll know... when they''re comin''. It ain''t... mustard gas, though. I couldn''t say... what this is."


    Lucian was not a fan of the nickname.


    He was gasping now, the red of his feeble mask turning a brighter, newer shade. A whistle blew in the far-off distance. Another, then another, tens of whistles blowing. But not the kind bombs make when they''re about to decimate someone, but rather the kind in the factories that signal when your shift is done.


    "Up... the trench now. Before it gets... real bad." The man began to heave himself up the trench, unshouldering his gun in the process.


    Lucian''s cough only intensified as he clawed his way up beside the man. As he reached the top and clumsily slung his rifle over his shoulder, the mounted guns began to fire blindly into the yellow fog. A moment later, screams and bullets tore out through the poisonous mist, piercing the ears and flesh of Lucian and his comrades.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    Mud kicked up all around Lucian, staining his already ragged trenchcoat and blood-soaked rag. Still coughing and now beginning to gag on the blood and phlegm infecting his lungs, Lucian shakily took aim as the screams and gunfire slunk closer.


    A shadowy figure stumbled into view, their leg dragging. The man who had called him lucky fired once into the shadow''s chest, then pulled the bolt back, discharging a shell casing, sending it hissing into the mud. The shadow crumpled to the ground, a wet slop enunciating the kill.


    Lucian observed all this the best he could while trying not to cough himself to death. He understood the process of firing his rifle now, but what he didn''t understand is why, as soon as the figure dropped, the man hauled himself over the trench, bent the barbed wire fence with the butt of his rifle, and dropped to his knees near the body, then began wrenching at the dead man''s face. No, not his face, his mask!


    Two more figures, this time at a full sprint, burst out of the fog. Lucian raised his rifle but hesitated for a mere second. And that''s all it took for the front-most figure to raise his rifle and put two bullets into the chest of Lucian''s ally, who had not noticed them and was still desperately wrenching at the mask.


    Lucian fired.


    The rifle bucked hard into his shoulder as the front-most soldier jerked half around, Lucian''s bullet eating into his shoulder. Lucian worked the bolt and fired again, this time into the man further back, leaving a hole through his neck. He worked the bolt again and put a hole through the first man''s chest, finishing him off.


    Lucian did not marvel at his apparent talent for marksmanship, he thought only of the lives he had just taken and the man he had let down. He wanted to go out and check on the man that had first helped him, but more figures appeared, all wearing the same eerie mask. The guns of the men lining the trench lit up as they discharged. Lucian fired with them, working the bolt and flexing his finger with a detached feeling.


    This was just a hallucination, right? The people he was killing were just figments of his mind, right? Honestly, he was angry with himself—who cared if they were real? These guys dropped gas bombs, which were currently making him cough up part of his respiratory system.


    To hell with compassion.


    Lucian picked another target and squeezed the trigger. Nothing but a click came from the rifle. As his target was taken down by someone else, Lucian rummaged around in his coat pockets, pulling out a few loose rounds. Pulling back the bolt, Lucian jammed the bullets into the open space. To test if he had done it right, Lucian picked a target and squeezed the trigger. The bullet dug into the man''s stomach.


    As Lucian and the others continued to fire into the onslaught of men, their vision began to grow dim, their coughing intensified, with flesh peeling away inside of them and coming out with every cough.


    Lucian wheezed as he chambered another bullet. He needed one of those masks; the cover of the trench didn''t matter if he drowned on his own blood.


    Just as Lucian thought this, someone was up out of the trench and sprinting toward the fence. Bending it down and crossing, they found a body with one of the masks. Kneeling in the mud, they feverishly wrenched the mask off and slammed it onto their face. The person didn''t stop coughing, but it looked like they were breathing easier. That was all it took to break the soldiers'' conditioning. More and more people broke from the line. The promise of clean air was too sweet.


    As more and more people broke and ran into the killing field, the enemy soldiers began to take notice. Both sides slaughtered each other. Mud flew and blood splattered as men died. The trenches line continued to fray, the desperate men dying almost as fast as the enemy force. With the trenches depleting firepower, the enemy grew closer and closer, eventually making it to the barbed wire fence.


    A soldier beside Lucian screamed and clutched his neck, red gushing. A man in blue stepped over a bent portion of the fence and charged towards Lucian''s part of the trench. Lucian, begging to any god there was that he wouldn''t hit the mask, put two bullets into the man''s chest. The corpse in blue fell three feet in front of him.


    Lucian gave no thought to the other attackers. He was up and over to the man in an instant, prying the mask away. Coughing and spitting, he peeled the red-stained cloth away from his face and slipped the mask on as he scrambled back to the trench.


    It was a rubbery thing, with glass for eyeholes and a cylindrical filter sticking out of where the mouth would be. Two straps stuck out of the top of the mask, crossed at the base of Lucian''s skull, and met at the bottom of the mask.


    Lucian''s quick gulps exposed him to the metallic taste of the filter. He didn''t care. The blissful taste of mostly clean air was all that Lucian cared about. He still coughed, but there were no more chunks of meat, although there was blood. As Lucian lay there, gasping, he did not notice some of the men turn to him—no, to his mask—and stare hungrily.


    There was a hand, two, yanking on his mask. Lucian thrashed, jumping up and bringing up his rifle, expecting to see blue-clothed men. He mentally kicked himself for being so na?ve. It wasn''t the attackers; of course his side would be just as desperate as he was not thirty seconds ago. Still, the soft betrayal stung him a little.


    "If you want a mask, go out there and get one! Don''t come at me because I did what you couldn''t!" Lucian raged at the men around him, his mask somewhat muffling his speech.


    They slunk back from him, somewhat coming to their senses, realising infighting wasn''t going to help them survive, but not all looked like they wouldn''t try it again if Lucian gave them the chance. He hurriedly ducked back down to where he originally was lying as he felt the breath of bullets roar past.


    The enemy force slunk closer as more of the trench dwellers died. Some were now starting to die from the poison, suffocating on their own fluids. The bodies of the dead men in blue began to stack and give the living ones some cover. As the live blue soldiers were able to take refuge, their shots began to get more and more accurate. More of Lucian''s companions died around him. As Lucian tried to pick out a live target, he heard a loud boom come from behind him. The all-too-familiar whistle cut through the poisoned air. Only, for once, it didn''t hit him.


    The blue-clothed men scattered as their ranks were obliterated. The piles of dead bodies exploded, sending bits of them across the battlefield. It was vile. The only twinge of empathy Lucian felt was for the poor souls who ran out to procure themselves a mask. Only a few lucky ones had managed to get one and get themselves back into the trench.


    The bombs cleared the yellow fog, giving Lucian a better look at the carnage wrought upon the opposing army. And it was truly an army. Rows upon rows of men lined the killing field. The loss of life terrified Lucian. Each person out there had a family, friends, an entire life outside of this single barrage of uncaring slaughter.


    And they were wiped away.


    Lucian was having trouble looking away, so it was he who first saw the blue-clothed men who were closer to Lucian''s trench than their own, more then a thousand, ran for all they were worth toward him.


    Lucian turned to the haggard men, who were doing their best to celebrate while still coughing and choking.


    "They''re charging us!" The mask muffled his voice, but they heard him all the same.


    A hush spreaded over the men like a wave. They looked back to the killing field in a singular slow turn. The bombs fell farther now, eating away at their enemies trench. More men turned and began to charge Lucian. The closest enemy soldier is about 50 feet away, closing fast.


    The ragged group of people still alive in the trench begin to take positions again, their cheeriness gone as quickly as it appeared. Lucian turned down to his empty pocket, then to his nearly empty rifle.


    He has three bullets left.


    The closest soldier falls to a single gunshot. The floodgates open. It is again a slaughter as the trench dwellers fire into the mob. Lucian doesn''t fire. He saves his bullets for the inevitable melee.


    The bombs drop back down from the trench of the enemy and chase them toward Lucian''s force.


    The mass of muddied blue rolls closer. Their front line is pushed over the spiked fence by their rear and is trampled as the fence falls.


    Lucian cursed whover had the bright idea to fire the bombs so that they would push the enemy towards him. The men around Lucian were out of bullets. They back up deeper into the trench and stand, preparing their bayoneted rifles, positioning them near their hips, ready to catch the enemy.


    Lucian shoots the man in the knee who''s about to jump down on him. The man falls screaming and trips the next one behind him. Lucian bayonets the second man in the neck. The men beside him surge upward to catch the first wave. Bodies fall as the melee starts, hundreds dead on first contact.


    Another sea of blue crests the trenches opening, they tower over Lucian on the backs of their dead friends. They fire downward into the trench. The men around Lucian die. A ping comes from Lucian''s rifle. He raises it to fire. Nothing happens. Lucian surges upward and stabs the thigh of one of the enemy. He reaches up and pries the man''s bayoneted gun as he drops his own and fires once, twice, three times into the now unarmed man, rage fueling each trigger pull. This man dared to try and kill him? Even after the gas, the blood, and guts, he and his compatriots dared to subject him to more? Fine! Just try it.


    Lucian fires into the next man to take the previous one''s place, then to his sides as the men around Lucian are overwhelmed.


    Lucian is a beast as he swings around him with his newly acquired weapon. Killing, maiming, anything he can do to stay alive. Anything he can do to inflict the most pain on his tormentors.


    He barely feels the bullets enter him, adrenaline steaming hot in his veins. The blades are annoyances as they enter his stomach, his legs, his arm.


    The mud is cold on Lucian''s back. The last thing before blackness is a dreary sky, slightly masked only by the fogged lenses of the gas mask.


    Pain is the last feeling that leaves him.