This ruined city is nothing more than a graveyard of steel and concrete. The towering buildings that once stood proudly are now nothing but scattered debris, like the skeletal remains of giants slain in war. Smoke still rises from the last battle, filling the air with the acrid stench of gunpowder and burning metal.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead, my fingers gripping the hatch tightly as I survey the shattered skyline. The setting sun sinks behind a veil of dust, casting a golden-red glow over the ruins.
Where is our infantry support?
We were forced to retreat too quickly. Our forces were scattered. Now, we're alone.
Then I see a massive shadow emerges from behind the wreckage, its turret barely visible among the ruins. But I already know what it is.
T-14 Armata.
Russia's war machine, designed to dominate the battlefield. Its reactive armor can withstand nearly any projectile. Its active defense system can intercept missiles before they reach their target. And now, it has its sights set on us.
I don't know how they got their hands on such a deadly weapon, but one thing is certain—our aging tank stands no chance against that beast.
My blood turns to ice.
"Boreas! Move, now! Evasive maneuvers!" I shout, gripping the hatch even tighter.
Without hesitation, Boreas responds. Our T-72M8 roars to life, its tracks grinding against the shattered asphalt as it swerves sharply. The force nearly throws me from my position.
Just in time.
A fraction of a second later, a high-speed projectile tears through the air where we had just been. The ground shakes as the explosion engulfs what remains of an apartment block behind us. Molten debris rains down like a deadly storm.
That shot would have turned us into a fireball had it landed just a little closer.
"Moranka!" I yell into the intercom. "Return fire! But keep moving! Boreas, full reverse! Do not stop!"
Moranka growls in frustration but follows orders. Our 125mm cannon roars, sending a shell hurtling toward the T-14.
The shot was rushed. It had to be. Our outdated stabilization system made accurate firing while moving nearly impossible.
A blast erupts as the shell strikes the T-14's turret. Sparks and smoke billow for a moment before fading.
No penetration.
I knew it before I even saw the impact. The T-14's armor is too advanced, its defenses too fast. Our shell might as well have been a pebble thrown at a monster.
"Damn it! Boreas, full retreat! Keep moving, do not stop!"
"Roger that!"
The T-72M8 lurches backward, rattling as it weaves through the ruins. Every second is crucial. If the T-14 corrects its aim, we won't get another chance.
Then, the radio crackles to life.
"Viktor, we see you! Hold your position! AT team moving in!"
Reinforcements. Infantry with anti-tank weapons. A sliver of hope.
But can we hold out long enough?
The T-14 fires again.
I don't see the shell.
But I feel it.
A deafening explosion rocks the tank. My vision turns white. My ears ring like a blaring siren.
Then—darkness.
When consciousness returns, a sharp, searing pain splits through my head. Something warm and sticky trickles down my forehead.
Blood.
The air inside the tank is thick with smoke. Metal groans, as if the vehicle itself is dying. The scent of burning steel fills my lungs, making my chest tighten. I feel a small sense of relief that at least the shell didn't hit our ammunition rack.
I blink, trying to refocus.
The driver's hatch… it's gone. A jagged, blackened hole yawns where it used to be, the edges twisted and charred.
"Boreas?" My voice is hoarse.
No response.
But the tank is still moving in reverse.
Is he still alive?
My hands tremble as I reach for the intercom. "Boreas! Answer me!"
"It's pointless, Captain." Moranka's voice is weak. Blood drips from the back of his head, mixing with sweat and dust. "He's dead. No one could survive that shot."
Our T-72M8 continues to lurch backward, completely out of control. The systems must have locked up, stuck on the last command. The engine roars in protest, the tracks grinding over rubble, tearing through the fractured concrete.
Then—
The tank slams into an old building at full speed. The impact is catastrophic, bringing down what little remained of the structure.
The ruins collapse on top of us.
I try to scream, but my voice is swallowed by the dust and the darkness. In no time we're buried.
----
My breath comes in ragged gasps, my chest rising and falling as if my lungs refuse to believe I'm no longer in battle. Cold sweat drenches my body, soaking through my clothes until the fabric clings uncomfortably to my skin. My hair sticks to my forehead, damp and heavy, as though I've just emerged from a battlefield rather than a restless sleep.
I blink rapidly, staring at the dim ceiling above me. My breathing is still uneven, my ears ringing with the fading echoes of an emergency siren that isn't really there.
Moonlight filters through the small gap in my curtains, casting faint slashes of silver across the walls. Silence stretches through the room—no roaring engines, no artillery fire, no screams of dying men.
A dream.
Just a dream.
But it felt too real.
I press a trembling hand against my chest, trying to steady the frantic rhythm of my heart. And yet, the acrid scent of gunpowder still lingers in my nose, the stench of scorched metal thick in my lungs.
I bite my lip and glance down at my palm—still shaking.
"...What the hell?"
It's been nine years since I woke up in this body. Nine years since I was reborn as Erina. Yet, not once in all that time have I dreamed about my past life—about my time on the battlefield.
Not until now.
Why now?
I drag a hand down my face, as if I can wipe away the images still seared into my mind—the burning ruins of a city, the desperate roars of the machine the explosion that buried us alive.
I inhale deeply, closing my eyes for a brief moment.
It wasn't my first battle.
But it was the first time I lost one of my own.
Even if it was only a dream, the pain is the same.
I remember the suffocating weight of the rubble, the choking dust filling the narrowing space around us, the desperate struggle to stay conscious as oxygen ran thin.
But then—salvation.
Reinforcements arrived.
They dug us out of that steel and concrete grave, dragging our battered bodies from the wreckage. I can still hear their frantic shouts, feel the strong hands that pulled us to safety.
And I remember the T-14, the steel monster that had nearly destroyed us, finally retreating when our anti-tank infantry arrived.
But Boreas…
I met him at the very start of the war. He was my first subordinate, the first soldier under my command. He was always calm, no matter the situation. It didn't matter how dire things were—his hands never wavered on the controls. His skills as a driver were incredible, his instincts sharp. He always knew exactly where to go, how to angle the tank just right, even before I gave the order.
He wasn't much of a talker.
To be honest, he was the kind of soldier you'd expect to survive the war.
And yet…
I was naive to believe that.
My fists clench.
I turn to the mirror across the room, catching my own reflection—pale face, tired eyes staring back.
Why now? Why that memory?
Or was it more than just a dream?
The clock on my nightstand reads just shy of midnight.
I exhale softly, still feeling the lingering fatigue of a restless sleep. I had gone to bed after my birthday celebration—an intimate, quiet affair that ended around nine.
No lavish decorations, no grand banquet, no guests filling the house with idle chatter. Just the three of us. As always.
It was… nice, in its own way. We had dinner together, my favorite dishes cooked by Mom's hands. Then, as expected, Dad handed me a gift—just like he did every year.
Books.
I smile faintly, remembering the way his face lit up as he gave them to me. He always made sure to choose ones that would keep me occupied for hours, books he knew I would love.
Then there was Mom.
I sigh.
As usual, she gifted me extravagant dresses and flashy accessories, her eyes shining with hope as I unwrapped them—hope that this time, I might actually like them.
But she knew.
She knew I would never wear them.
If I were to open my closet right now and count all the dresses she's given me over the years, they'd probably take up an entire shelf. Dresses I've never once touched.
But the worst part?
The extra gift.
Mom gave me a book.
Not a novel. Not a history book.
But a book.
"How to Become a Graceful Lady from a Young Age" by Marie Klark.
I nearly choked when I read the title.
And Mom, with that ever-gentle smile, said in her warmest voice, "Erina, dear, it's time for you to grow out of this tomboy phase and become a proper lady."
What a headache.
I understand what she wants—she wants me to be more feminine, more refined, to fit the image of an elegant young woman from a noble family.
But that's not who I am.
And now, after all that, I wake up to a nightmare from a life I left behind.
I let out a slow breath, staring at the dim ceiling.
Today was supposed to be a good day.
And yet, after that dream… it feels like an old weight has settled back onto my shoulders.
My throat felt dry.
I swallowed, trying to get rid of the sudden thirst, but it was useless. I needed water.
Reluctantly, I got out of bed, my bare feet touching the cold wooden floor. I sighed, pulling the thin blanket closer around me before walking toward the door.
As I opened it and stepped into the quiet hallway, I noticed a light still on downstairs.
I frowned.
Who's still awake this late?
Carefully, I descended the stairs, trying not to make a sound. When I reached the bottom, I saw my dad sitting on the sofa in the living room.
He was alone.
The warm glow of the fireplace illuminated his face, casting soft shadows that flickered across the walls. In his hand was a glass of golden liquid—clearly alcohol. A bottle of liquor stood on the small table beside him, its cap already off.
I stood still for a moment, watching him.
Dad looked calm. Too calm. His eyes were fixed on the fire, as if lost in his own thoughts. He didn't notice me, or maybe he was deliberately ignoring me.
I hesitated for a second, then stepped closer.
"Dad?" My voice was barely a whisper.
Dad turned slowly, his expression neutral, but I could see a hint of surprise in his eyes. He raised an eyebrow. "Erina? Why aren't you asleep yet?"
"I was thirsty," I answered simply, pointing toward the kitchen.
Dad gave a small nod and turned his gaze back to the fire. I hesitate for a moment before heading to the kitchen, pouring myself a glass of water, then stopping near the living room again.
I wanted to ask something, but the words felt stuck in my throat.
Dad didn't drink often. At least, not in front of us. Usually, he was a disciplined and controlled man, someone who didn't let his emotions show easily. But tonight, something felt different.
I watched him with curiosity.
"Dad… why are you still up?" I finally asked, breaking the silence.
He didn't answer right away. It took a few seconds before he let out a quiet sigh, swirling the liquid in his glass, and said in a calm voice, "Sometimes, sleep doesn't come as easily as we hope."
I frowned, not entirely understanding what he meant.
"You know, Erina," he continued, his voice softer, "time passes so quickly. It feels like just yesterday I was holding you as a baby, and now you've grown… you're already nine years old."
I fell silent.
I didn't know what to say. I wasn't used to sentimental words from my dad. Usually, he showed his affection through actions, not words.
I stepped closer and sat in the chair across from him. "Is something on your mind, Dad?" I asked gently.
Dad looked at me for a few seconds before giving a small smile. A smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"There's nothing for you to worry about," he said, taking a sip of his drink.
I wasn't satisfied with his answer, but I also knew Dad wasn't the type to easily talk about his feelings.
But tonight, it was just the two of us. No Mom, no distractions. Maybe this was the right time to ask something that had been on my mind for a long time.
I watched Dad as he took another sip, his face remaining as unreadable as ever.
I took a deep breath, gathering my courage before finally speaking. "Dad, I want to ask you something. Is that okay?"
Dad glanced at me briefly, then gave a small, curious smile. "Oh? What has my little genius so curious this time?"
His tone was light, but I could sense a bit of caution beneath it.
I swallowed. My breath caught slightly before I finally voiced the question that had been lingering in my mind.
"All these Routine Rotations… they're just a deception, aren't they?"
As soon as the words left my lips, the atmosphere in the room changed.
Dad paused, then slowly placed his glass on the table. His gaze locked onto mine.
He didn't answer right away, just stared at me in silence as if carefully weighing his response.