Decisive Victory, Looking to the Future

The drumstick struck the scorched earth with a soft sound, like a sigh settling to the ground. Chen Wuya's hand still rested on it, his knuckles white, his palm smeared with ash and dried blood. He did not move. He merely slowly raised his eyes and swept his gaze across the valley and beyond.

Most of the fires had gone out. Only a few wisps of lingering smoke rose from the tunnel mouths, slanting in the morning wind. Bodies lay scattered every which way—black-armored soldiers of the other race, and comrades from the allied army alike. A tattered banner hung from the cliff face, one corner drooping motionlessly.

No one cheered.

A young soldier sat kneeling not far from him, clutching half a broken blade. His head was bowed, his shoulders trembling faintly. Beside him, someone was dragging away another corpse with slow movements, as if afraid of waking something.

Chen Wuya slowly rose and walked toward the kneeling man. He crouched before him and gently used the drumstick to brush aside a fragment of shattered armor blocking the man's eyes. The piece flipped over, revealing a shallow streak of blood beneath it.

"You're still alive," he said. "That means you are not a loser."

The soldier lifted his head. His eyes were hollow, his lips moved, but no sound came out.

Chen Wuya said nothing more. He simply patted the man's shoulder and stood. Looking around, he spoke in a voice that was not loud, yet carried clearly to every ear: "No one fell alone today. We won because all of us stood together."

In the distance, a burly man bandaging his wound paused and looked up at him. Then he threw back his head and shouted, "We won!"

That cry was like a spark falling into a haystack.