Punghon

He fought with the desperation of a cornered beast, clawing his way through the carnage to see another dawn. Luck carried him through one more mission, but luck is a fickle creditor, and its debts always come due. He knows the fate that awaits him—the same fate that claimed his comrades, their names erased and their sacrifice recast as desertion. Soon, he will be just another forgotten soul, his remains scattered in some nameless valley, a feast for crows, while the world moves on without a single thought for his struggle. The stench of blood clings to everything, thick enough to choke on, while the screams of hell rise from below in a ceaseless, maddening howl. This is the world he inhabits: a waking nightmare of gore and anguish. Burdened by the weight of the dead and the horror of the living, a single, desperate desire takes root within him. To shed the blood-soaked weight of his humanity, to abandon the battlefield and its unending terror, and to become the wind itself—unbound, free, and silent, soaring far beyond the reach of war's cruel hand.