My name is Ye Jiayao, I'm eighteen years old, and I'm a third-year student at the First School of the Red Domain Border.

  I was born in a small town on the western border of the Red Domain Empire, right next to the Zehongs Forest. If you circle around that dense mist and wild beasts infested wilderness, you'll find our so-called enemy — the "Ovira Democratic Republic," or simply "West Country."

  The Red Domain Empire, my homeland, is a nation so powerful it inspires fear. The emperor wields absolute authority, our military is said to be the strongest on the continent, and our technology and mechanical craftsmanship lead the world, enough to make neighboring countries quake in fear.

  As for the West Country, while it doesn't match our heavy industry and military equipment, they've made stunning breakthroughs in bioengineering, pharmaceutical chemistry, and information technology. Their high-tech industries have developed at a rapid pace, with weapons and genetic modification technologies as their main exports.

  The enmity between the two nations has a long history. Border skirmishes come and go, with the West Country frequently provoking us — sometimes for resources, sometimes for what they call "living space." After each defeat, they fall into political chaos but remain unwilling to surrender. Recently, rumors suggest they plan to expand their territory, and the situation is becoming tense again.

  This is what the history books say — but I never really cared about it. After all, wars aren't something I have to fight. I just take these stories at face value. After all... history is written by the victors, right?

  The school I attend is called the First School of the Red Domain Border. Don’t be fooled by the name; it sounds like a prestigious institution, but in reality, it’s a desolate place. Surrounded by fog and forests, the school gate is flanked by gray steel walls and military outposts. After school, there’s nowhere to go, and no crowds to mingle with. It’s so quiet, it feels like an island on the brink of martial law.

  I’ve never bothered to question why the school is located here. Our family lives nearby, and I’m just glad to be alive. Maybe the government has a plan? After all, in recent years, our curriculum has included military drills — every morning at 7 AM, we gather. In addition to regular courses, we also have battlefield first aid, mechanical principles, tactical simulations, and even close combat training.

  The government calls it "self-defense training," but sometimes I really wonder — is this still a regular school?

  To be honest, I don’t have any objections. On this land, understanding the truth has never been the focus. Surviving — that’s the most important thing. Because if you talk too much, you won't last long.

  At 6:30 AM, the alarm clock went off on time. The moment I opened my eyes, I also heard the low hum of the train tracks outside, like someone dragging a heavy steel chain. It must be the supply train from the east side arriving early again.

  I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and put on my uniform. My uniform is like a military one, and depending on the situation, we have military fatigues, combat suits, and camouflage uniforms. Today is a combat training class, so I hurriedly put on my uniform. The shoulder epaulets are a bit big; they're still my older brother's. He graduated from this school when I was in high school, then got drafted and hasn't come back since.

  "Hurry up, if you're not out in five minutes, the whole school will run ten laps!" my roommate shouted. I quickly put on my military pants, grabbed my toothbrush, and rushed to the bathroom.

  But the dormitory is far from the bathroom. Even if I run as fast as I can, there’s often no space left. There are over 900 students here...

  With just two minutes left until the assembly, the class leaders have already started using loudspeakers to urge everyone, and some have even barged into the dorms to drag people out. If you’re still in bed, you have to do frog jumps for four laps, becoming the laughingstock of the whole school. I finished brushing my teeth, packed up my toothbrush cup in three seconds, and rushed to the cafeteria, eating bread while running. Don’t think I’m sloppy; actually, in our school, this is considered pretty good. The others are far more embarrassing.

  At 6:35, I sprinted into the assembly ground, just in time. The students of our grade stood there expressionlessly, some even nodding off. The winter fog hadn’t dissipated yet, visibility was less than fifty meters, and the distant control tower looked like a translucent ghost.

  The military instructor appeared right on time, walking past us with a long baton in hand. He glanced at us coldly, then slammed the baton heavily onto the ground.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "Warm up by class units, then we’ll proceed with tactical simulations and mechanical repairs. Run three laps first, then assemble and disperse," he said coldly, his tone robotic. "Latecomers will be banned from eating today."

  This is how our mornings start every day. Some say this is to teach us how to survive on the battlefield, but I know they're just watching to see who can’t keep up. This isn’t even a school anymore; it's like we’re in the military!

  I don’t run fast, but I maintain a steady pace. A student next to me suddenly vomited during the second lap. The instructor showed no mercy and immediately ordered him to leave the line. He was carried off by two medical students. This happens often, and no one gives it a second thought. After all, if you linger for a moment, you’ll get five extra laps. From the day we entered this school, they've been teaching us not to have sympathy. This is no longer a school; it’s a military training ground, and everyone is preparing for life and death.

  The next class was a tactical simulation, where we learned to analyze the typical unit configurations and ambush tactics used by the West Country. The information is updated every few weeks, supposedly based on real battlefield conditions from the "frontlines." I don’t know where the frontlines are, but it looks like we’re not far from them.

  Lunch time is at 11:40 AM. The cafeteria serves standard military rations — today, it’s rye bread, cold smoked meat, and a bowl of vegetable soup. There are a few slices of carrots in the soup, and everyone sees this day as "lucky" because usually, all we get is bread and military rations. If you’re still hungry, you’re not allowed to hide food, and if you’re caught, you’ll be banned from eating for three days.

  In the cafeteria, everyone’s expression is like lifeless robots, and I can’t care about that. As long as I finish eating quickly and can take a short nap back in the dorm, that’s all I need. The 20-minute meal time is really tight, and the cafeteria can only hold about 100 people, so there’s never enough space. But sometimes, if you’re lucky enough to finish eating early, you can take a nap before the assembly.

  The afternoon class was on mechanical principles and applications. The classroom was filled with disassembled unmanned reconnaissance drones, automated supply vehicles, and an incomplete turret. The teacher is an old man wearing a military uniform, said to have served in the engineering corps for thirty years. His words are simple, yet profound: "Learn to disassemble a gun, and you’ll understand how the enemy plans to kill you."

  No one reacted to his words. At that moment, I noticed a girl at the next table was secretly taking notes, writing quickly with her fingertips smeared in machine oil. People like her are usually assigned to armament factories or directly to tactical departments after graduation.

  The bell rang, signaling the end of class, and I looked out the window. The forest in the dista

  The first class in the afternoon was history, and the classroom was unusually quiet.

  Today's topic was the Hundred Years' War between the Red Domain Empire and the Ovira Democratic Republic. The teacher was a middle-aged man wearing round glasses, constantly holding a thick black-bound book, and his tone was monotonous. He mechanically read from the timeline on the electronic whiteboard.

  "In the year 4763, the Red Domain Empire repelled the 7th Elite Division of the West on the northern front... This was the turning point of the Third 'Yellow Sands Battle'..."

  No emotion, no life. My life is the same — meaningless.

  I sat in the third row by the window, staring blankly outside. The sky was a dull gray, like it was pressed by a layer of lead. Something felt off today, but I couldn't pinpoint what it was. Anyway, no matter how strange things felt, it wouldn't be worse than my life here at this school.

  — Then, a loud bang.

  It was like the sky exploded, and the tempered glass shattered in an instant.

  "Get down—!" someone screamed. But, it was too late.

  Several high-explosive warheads burst through the walls, and the front seats were instantly blasted apart. Blood and flesh flew everywhere, smoke and debris mixed with screams that came at me. I was blown to the ground, slamming onto the floor. My ears rang, and my vision blurred. I could only vaguely see my classmates falling one by one.

  I froze.

  The next second, gunfire echoed from the stairwell — not our standard-issue rifles, but the West’s assault rifles!

  "Enemy attack! Enemy—"

  Before the teacher could finish his sentence, a bullet pierced through his head. He stiffened and collapsed, blood splattering onto that black-bound book. The pages of the book fluttered in the wind, like a death sentence.

  The classroom was in chaos, smoke filled the air. Classmates screamed, crawled, cried, hid, and some sat frozen, like they had been frozen in place. My hands shook uncontrollably, as if I was going insane. I tried to stand up, but my legs wouldn’t move.

  The class leader hid under the desks and shouted, "Enemy attack! Cover!" He shouted several times, but no one heard him, or no one could react. A student, panicked, leapt out of the high window.

  Blood and severed limbs were everywhere.

  The student sitting next to me, Ryokawa, rushed towards the door, but as soon as he took a step, a bullet pierced through his chest. He collapsed in front of me like a rag doll. Blood splattered all over me. His eyes widened, blood bubbles emerged from the corner of his mouth, and he tried to push his body up, as if wanting to say something... but he could no longer speak.

  "No, no, no..." I whispered, trembling, covering my mouth with one hand to keep from making any noise. My other hand reached out towards Ryokawa... but I couldn't do it. My body was frozen.

  For the first time... for the first time, someone died in front of me... and it was... my comrade.

  Death had never felt so real before. Every second was a life slipping away; every second, it felt like the gates of hell were opening.

  Tears filled my eyes as I crawled into a storage closet nearby. My heartbeat thundered in my chest. My eyes were fixed on the crack between the doors, watching the scene outside. Heavy, synchronized footsteps approached — not the footsteps of our students or teachers — they were the footsteps of soldiers.

  Then, West soldiers burst in.

  They wore black and blue combat suits, metal masks covering their faces, automatic rifles in their hands. Like silent hunters, each one swept through the classroom, shooting at students still crying, begging for mercy. They shot without hesitation, without delay, as if this wasn't a classroom, but a battlefield that needed to be cleaned up.

  A student, shot in the arm, was dragged out. The soldiers immediately broke his other limbs, shot him in the head as he screamed, and then discarded his body like trash in the hallway. They even had a cruel smile on their faces, as though they were enjoying a sick game.

  "This... this is a school..." I whispered, as if saying it to myself.

  But no one would answer me.

  This was no longer a school.

  This was a slaughterhouse.