Date: UC 1922, Late Autumn
Location: Eastern Pacific Islands, Abandoned Forward Outpost
Report Classification: Restricted — Field Deployment Log
The silence inside the bunker was deafening. With nothing but a dim oil lamp and the stale scent of rust and sweat, Itsumi sat curled against the cold wall, his small frame wrapped in an oversized coat. The days dragged on—each one slower than the last. Food was limited. Water, rationed. But the worst was the silence. The absolute, suffocating silence.
He didn't speak. Not even to himself. His breathing was steady, mechanical—like a machine learning to survive.
But the silence wouldn't last.
Boots. Engines. The faint grind of steel treads in the jungle. Enemy reinforcements had arrived.
They came with numbers. With tanks, air support, and confidence. Itsumi heard their voices through the cracks in the bunker—loud, careless, certain of their dominance. For a while, he just listened. But when the first patrol passed too close, he knew: hiding would no longer be enough.
So, he fought.
With a rifle in hand and grenades strapped to his sides, Itsumi became a ghost among trees. Silent, precise, relentless. For the tanks, he used explosives and ambushes, crawling beneath them like a shadow with teeth. For the skies, he commandeered their own anti-aircraft weapons, learning quickly, firing blindly, hitting instinctively.
Day by day, the bodies stacked. He scavenged their rations, patched his uniform with their torn cloth, and kept moving—always changing position. Always alone.
The soldiers began to whisper in fear. "There's something on this island," they said. "It's not human."Some thought it was a battalion. Others thought it was a cursed ghost.But it was just a child.
After weeks of mounting casualties, when the enemy's confirmed losses passed a thousand, panic took root. Orders came down to abandon the island. The ships left in haste, carrying away soldiers who'd never seen their attacker, only heard the screams of those who had.
Then, silence returned.
Itsumi stood alone again. Dirt clung to his skin. His arms ached. His ears rang.Around him—only the dead.
He walked back to the bunker, slow and quiet. He stepped over helmets, crushed rifles, and blood-soaked earth.When he reached the door, he slipped inside without a word.
The metal creaked shut.
He sat down, back to the wall, knees to his chest.And for the first time in months, he trembled.
Not from fear.Not from the cold.But from everything.