The story begins in a miserable little tribe, worn down by weakness and crushing poverty. Its tattered tents threatened to collapse at any moment, and most of its people teetered on the brink of death—starved, sick, and broken. Amid this grim scene, an old man appeared, dragging his feet with great effort and pain. He slowly made his way beyond the tribe's borders and let out a sorrowful sigh, whispering in a trembling voice,
"They are here... It seems this is the end, my beloved tribe. Time has worn you down, and misfortune has crushed you."
His words carried the bitterness of deep despair and heartbreak over what had become of his people.
In the far distance, the first shapes of an imperial military squad began to emerge—heralding an imminent attack. A faint, resigned smile appeared on the old man's face, mixed with sorrowful acceptance. Hot tears streamed from his withered eyes, as if bidding farewell to the final moments of his life.
In that silence, drenched in dread, one of the soldiers took position, planting his boots in the dusty earth, and raised his gleaming rifle with cold precision toward the pale face of the old man. With merciless focus, he aimed at the frail skull.
But the old man remained still, smiling with strange inner peace, as if he had finally found an end to his long suffering.
The gunshot cracked the silence. The bullet pierced the fragile skull, and the limp body fell motionless to the ground.
Then, from among the soldiers, stepped the commander of the squad—distinguished by his unique uniform and the shiny badge on his chest. He shouted in a commanding, merciless voice:
"Advance! Kill anyone who breathes in this wretched place, and take anything that might please our great Emperor!"
There wasn't a shred of mercy in his tone.
The brutal squad rushed to carry out the order, unleashing terror and death throughout the tribe. Screams of panic and pain shattered the stillness, while flames devoured the fragile tents.
The commander walked with cold confidence toward a modest tent, from which a strange, faint aura seemed to glow—like it was hiding something ancient.
He approached with extreme caution, gripping his weapon, ready for anything. As he stepped inside, he froze for a moment.
There he found a woman groaning in muffled pain, writhing on a ragged mattress, caught in the throes of labor. Sweat poured from her flushed forehead, and her body trembled violently with every wave of agony.
Three curious soldiers followed him in. One asked,
"What is it, sir?"
The commander replied coldly,
"Let her give birth, then kill her and the child. We don't want any seed of this filth to grow."
And so, they watched in silence as new life tried to emerge from this ruined world.
A muffled cry broke through, followed by another—louder, stronger. The birth was complete.
The exhausted woman tried to lift her pain-wracked body, desperate to see her newborns. One of the soldiers moved to strike, but the commander gestured:
"Leave her. These are her final moments."
In a voice weak but full of bittersweet joy, the woman whispered,
"My joy and my sorrow... I've been blessed with beautiful twins, not alike at all, both boys. Oh, my little ones... I've brought you into this hell... And the strange thing is, I never even lay with any ma—"
Before she could finish, a whisper echoed in her ear:
"Shhhh..."
Her body stilled. She passed away in an eerie, peaceful silence.
The commander, unfazed, said,
"Strange. She died without our help. And I didn't quite get what she was trying to say... Doesn't matter. Take the infants and kill them."
The three soldiers each picked up one of the newborns. One of them sneered,
"I've got an idea. Go over to that wall. I'll bring some wine—let's make this night fun."
The other two walked toward a crumbling wall, while the first returned with a cheap bottle of liquor.
They lit a small fire, drank, and laughed loudly, ignoring the twins' soft cries. They drank until the wine dulled their senses.
One, swaying drunkenly, said,
"We forgot about these little rats. Let's play with them a bit."
Without the slightest hint of mercy, one soldier picked up the infant with black hair. He pulled a sharp plastic pen from his pocket and mockingly admired the baby's eyes.
"What a beautiful iris... blue like the sea."
Then, without hesitation, he stabbed it into the baby's eye with unimaginable cruelty.
The baby screamed hysterically until his voice cracked from pain. Then the soldier hurled the child against the stone wall.
They turned to the other baby, the one with brown hair, also drenched in tears.
The same soldier grinned wickedly:
"Let me pop this one's eye too... I love that feeling."
But another soldier chuckled and said,
"No, let's try something worse."
He drew a sharp knife from his belt and, with chilling calmness, sliced off the baby's left hand.
Then he grabbed the child by the head, brought the knife to his delicate throat, and made a shallow cut—enough to tear veins and graze the windpipe.
Then they tossed him beside his bloodied brother.
As if nothing had happened, the soldiers stumbled away, heading back toward the Empire, sipping the last of their wine and singing a crude song that reflected the blackness of their hearts.
The scene shifts to the twin infants, lying lifeless on the ground—barely clinging to existence.
Suddenly, a thick, black shadow passed over them... and a strange, haunting laugh echoed through the silent air.