Dust swirled in the air, mingling with the hurried footsteps of soldiers desperate to escape the enemy's fire.
No!
This wasn't a battlefield—it was a slaughterhouse. The deafening whistle of bullets and the agonized screams of the wounded wove together into a horrifying symphony.
Ḥamād, an ordinary twenty-five-year-old man, never imagined that the threads of fate would weave his life into this tragic scene.
All he had ever done was follow his parents' wishes, striving to make them proud. They wanted him to become a soldier, a protector of the nation and his family.
But deep in his heart, Ḥamād had yearned for a different life—a quiet one. He dreamed of being a writer, living peacefully in the countryside, crafting stories that touched people's hearts. In his prayers, he often imagined a modest life; earning a living with his words, raising a small, happy family, and growing old in serenity.
But reality was cruel. He had failed to protect anything.
His parents were killed in a brutal massacre that turned his humble village into a sea of blood and corpses.
What could he have done?
Nothing.
He wasn't there. He had been stationed elsewhere when it happened. By the time his duties were over, he returned to find only devastation, the remnants of his village washed away in his unending tears.
Time passed.
Grief transformed into anger. Anger into hatred. And hatred into something far darker—a burning desire for vengeance.
This obsession drove him to train relentlessly.
Every form of physical training, every skill with a weapon, every shot, slash, and thrust—he dedicated all of it to a single purpose: revenge.
To whom, you may ask.
To those who killed innocent people in the name of money, in the name of monetary war between the oppressor and the oppressed. In the name of wealth and greed.
It was so ironic.
Several thousand years ago, people shouted the name of their gods with every single drop of blood that dripped onto the earth. An effort to open up more places, so the prophecy that came down in the middle of the desert, could be spread to the entire world.
Just take a look at this current situation.
The war he was currently in. Everyone shouted their desires. Curses flew around within the bullets that pierced enemy's heart.
In front of this battlefield, the effort Ḥamād had all this time was a joke. The most anticipated moment of his life was become the sea of growling pain, cries, and despair-filled poems.
Ḥamād and his military comrades were assigned to respond to enemy attacks on the border line. When he got this assignment, his smile was as bright as the sunlight.
Five thousand men were sent to the border to greet the enemies, which was estimated to number only two thousand.
Guess what...
It was a false information.
They were outnumbered. The enemy wielded modern, efficient weapons that outclassed theirs.
Just minutes ago, a bullet tore through Ḥamād's right shoulder, forcing him to drop his rifle. Another pierced his left calf, sending him crashing to the ground.
Though the enemy was somehow far behind, he couldn't move. Crawling, whimpering, and weeping were all he could manage, silently begging for mercy from those who showed none.
Perhaps, if he had shouted the name of his god from the start, the entity might have helped him in this situation. If revenge was not his motivation for going to war, would the situation have turned around in a better way?
The enemy's gun was pressed against his forehead, ready to end his life.
BANG!
Everything turned to darkness.
***
Ḥamād opened his eyes.
The first thought that crossed his mind was that he must have reached the afterlife. Yes, he was certain—he was dead after all.
His head spun, and his vision was still blurry.
Slowly, as the haze cleared, Ḥamād's eyes widened. He had never imagined the afterlife would look like this.
He lay on the ground beneath a clay structure that partially sheltered him. The building was in ruins, crumbling at its edges.
Hot winds carried a familiar scent. He recognized it instantly—the dry, arid aroma of the desert.
Struggling to his feet, he stepped outside.
The endless expanse of desert stretched before him, dotted with cacti, dry shrubs caught in the breeze, and shifting sands.
Wait.
This looked just like his village. The atmosphere, the buildings—it was all the same. Even the clay houses bore an uncanny resemblance to the ones from his destroyed home.
"Is God playing some cruel trick on me 'cause I forgot him? Is this what hell looks like?"
Ḥamād wandered through the deserted village. Every structure bore the scars of battle, tattered tents and broken poles hinting at the chaos that once reigned.
There were no corpses. No signs of life. What had happened here?
Before he realized it, the sun had set, replaced by a crescent moon. The biting cold of the night forced Hamad to seek refuge in one of the less dilapidated buildings.
He gathered scraps of wood and started a fire.
Reaching out to feel the warmth, he noticed something strange. His skin, once pale, was now a deeper, sun-kissed brown. His short black hair had become long and slightly curly.
Panicked, he touched his face.
The contours were foreign—his nose was sharper, his brows thicker.
What was this?
Had he somehow transmigrated into another body after death? But transmigration was just a trope in fictional tales. There was no evidence it could truly happen.
If that was the case, was this not the afterlife?
But where was he?
This place was eerily familiar, too similar to his village to be some fantastical realm filled with monsters.
Frustration overwhelmed him, and he raked his fingers through his hair. "What the hell is going on?!"
A chilling howl broke through the silence. Then another, and another, until the night was filled with the eerie cries of wolves.
Ḥamād's instincts kicked in.
Frantically, he doused the fire. He didn't want the wolves —or whatever they were— to discover him.
He grabbed a long piece of wood for protection and pressed himself against the wall, blending into the shadows.
The howls grew closer, accompanied by low growls. Sweat dripped down Ḥamād's face as his trembling body clung to the wall, his heart pounding as if it would burst.
Peeking through the gap in the doorway, he prepared to flee if the coast seemed clear.
His eyes widened in shock.
The "wolves" weren't ordinary wolves, he realized. They were humanoid creatures with the heads of wolves, resembling Anubis from ancient Egyptian mythology.
Each one of them carried a khopesh, a crescent-shaped blade from ancient Egypt.
Their snouts sniffed the air, searching. Drool dripped from their sharp teeth.
Terror froze Hamad in place. His military training had never prepared him for anything like this.
All he could do was wait and hope they moved on.
He watched as the last anubises passed the doorway, letting him exhale a shaky breath. He dared not move yet, wary of making any noise.
After waiting in silence, certain they had left, Ḥamād began to creep out.
But as he reached the door and turned left, his heart sank.
The Anubis-like creatures were there, waiting, their menacing grins promising no mercy.
***