A bloody haze obscures his vision, sand fills his mouth, and the last of his strength leaves the newly recruited soldier, preventing him from even twitching a finger. Next to him, a long-dead gaze from a gold-hearted psychic stares into his glazing eyes.
Genza relaxes and looks up at the cloudless sky - well, here we are. His peripheral vision catches the broad back of his comrade in the middle of the darkening landscape, still standing and desperately glaring at the stinking calcites. A feeling of resentment blossoms in his soul - is this really how it all has to end? So, they scratched him a couple of times with a saber, and what now?
- Russians... don't give up... - the defeated wolf utters another piece of wisdom from the bottomless depths of his memory to the gold-hearted psychic, puts his guts back in place, and tries to get up, leaning on his stock katana, overcoming the pain.