Orc Tyrant

He lay lonely and panicked in the cold mud of the Essex Plains, unable to move his legs, unable to sit up, let alone stand up.

The body of loss of temperature was helplessly shrouded in darkness, and his dry eyes still stared at the night sky, trying to read some omen from the cold stars.

However, the stars are silent, and the night sky is gloomy, which gives no comfort.

"How long has it been?"

He thought repeatedly.

"how many hours?"

He couldn't find the answer, so he looked around again, hoping to see some signs of rescue.

But there is no movement in the darkness, let alone hope, only the cold desperation quietly extends, the giant hand of the dark night hides the surrounding scene, and draws a shadow on it.

He couldn't find hope from it, or even his own equipment, so he was left alone in the dark world, hopeless to be saved.

For a while, he even felt that he was the last person in the world, and because of his horror, he hurriedly pushed this idea out of his mind.

"How long has it been?"

This problem breeds again, just like the mold stains in the corner that can never be removed.

"how many hours?"

He didn't feel the moment he was hit.

There was no pain, no discomfort, no suffering, only a sudden strange numbness in his legs, which made him fall to the ground.

He didn't understand what was happening at first, only when he stumbled, and when he sighed awkwardly and tried to stand up, he found that his legs were unresponsive. He waited for warm blood to seep out from his abdomen before realizing it. I was wrong.

For the next few hours, he could not see his injuries in the dark, so he reached out to investigate.

The bullet hit the bottom of his spine and left a fist-sized wound in his abdomen when he passed it out. He dealt with the wound as best as he could, wrapped the wound with dirty gauze to stop the bleeding, and put pressure on it.

Although the standard medical kit contains analgesics and the method of use has been kept in mind, he does not need them-he accidentally dipped his elbow into the large hole in the abdomen when exploring the wound, but did not feel any physical discomfort, let alone pain.

He doesn't need much medical knowledge, he also knows that things are not good.

"How long has it been?"

This question haunts my mind like a ghost and echoes in my ears, like a wave hitting a reef, ups and downs. .

"how many hours?"

All kinds of discomforts followed, the cold night bite the exposed face and neck, hard work made his mind dizzy, fear, loneliness, loneliness, and worse still silence.

When he fell wounded, the night sky was filled with thunderous war. Gunshots screamed, grenade pops, explosions roared, and the wounded screamed. These sounds gradually faded away, gradually weakened, and finally gave way to silence.

He never thought that noise could calm people down, the roar of the battlefield was breathtaking, and the silence after that was even more frightening. This silence highlighted his loneliness and made him face the fear.

He had to be alone in the dark, with fear as his company, and his emotions could not be calmed down.

"How long?"

He can no longer control his own thinking, nor can he do more things, only to torture himself repeatedly with such questions.

"how many hours?"

His heart was palpitating and crying, he wanted to ask for help, to beg for mercy, to scream, to yell, to pray, just to break the terrible silence.

Whenever this happened, he had to do his utmost to restrain, biting his lips so as not to scream out, because he knew that a little movement would speed up the coming of death, even if his comrades could hear it, so did the enemy.

On the other side not far away, tens of thousands of enemy troops are waiting, eager to kill.

No matter how terrifying the injury is on the battlefield, it will only be worse if the enemy finds it.

As a result, he can only endure the silence silently, even if the hope of rescue is slim, he can't push it.

"How long is it now?"

The thought slipped out of his throat inadvertently and turned into a singing-like whisper, or a certain tone.

"how many hours?"

He now seems to have nothing, nothing to worry about.

The important things in the past, such as family, hometown, and faith in the Father, are all gone.

Even his memory is like a dream, the past flashes before his eyes, and withers as quickly as his future. His heart was full of bright vision, but now it collapses when he is dying, leaving only a handful of choices—— Shouting or silence, bleeding to death, or raising a gun, awake or falling asleep.

For a while, sleep seemed so wonderful, he was exhausted, tired like an old friend, pulling him into a dream.

But he was unwilling to give in. He knew that if he fell asleep, he would never wake up again, and all these choices would be in vain.

In the final analysis, all he has is a harsh choice-life or death.

And he refused to die.

"How long?"

The question sounded mercilessly, but he had lost the ability to think, and his soul was about to sink into the quagmire of death.

"how many hours?"

There is no answer.

The only thing he can admit is that his fate is in the hands of others, and he can only wait in the desolate silence.

He waited, hoping that his comrades had begun searching in the dark night; he waited, refused to give up or fell asleep; he waited, his life hanging by a thread, like a star in the dark night like the tide; he waited, maybe only the end death.

He tried his last bit of strength, began to organize his thoughts, and recalled how he got here...

The sun is sinking, the red clouds reflect half of the sky, and the endless waves of wheat in the evening breeze are turned into a golden glow.

In his eighteen-year-old life, Garparson Lahn has seen a thousand sunsets, but stopped for this time alone.

He temporarily forgot his farm work, and was fascinated by the beauty for the first time as an adult.

He stood there, let the world quietly surround him, watching the night fall with unspeakable feelings in his heart.

"With the golden waves, the afterglow is in sight, and there is a home to return."

Home.

This thought made him turn his head and look at the farmhouse on the other side of the field through the rows of swaying crops.

He saw the corral with the sloping roof, the round tower-shaped barn, the chicken coop he helped his father build, and the stables for horses and half a dozen alpacas.

After that, he saw the farmhouse where he grew up in Sri Lanka, a small two-story building with a low wooden entrance hall. It was neither new nor old, but it had sheltered their family for generations.

At this time, the window sashes opened wide to welcome the sunset.

Rahn does not need to enter, knowing that at the moment his mother is preparing dinner in the kitchen, his brothers and sisters are setting the table, and his father is picking up utensils in the workshop in the basement.

When the work is over, they will sit down and eat.

His family rests like this every day, only changing with the seasons, but tomorrow night will be different.

No one remembers when this kind of life began, but as long as there are people tilling the land, life will continue in this way.

Tomorrow night, it is destined to be a little different.

Tomorrow night, he will fulfill the responsibilities of an eldest son.

Tomorrow night, he will accept the blessings of his family.

Tomorrow night, he will bid farewell to his childhood sweetheart.

Tomorrow night, he will leave here...