Bloodsheds – Chapter 1: Shadows of God
The world didn't make sense anymore. King had once believed in stories, in sermons, in promises of a just God. But sixteen years of life—and the past year of war—had burned those beliefs away.
He trudged through the mud, boots sinking into places churned by cannon fire. Around him, the air smelled of iron and smoke, of fire and rot. Villages had fallen like dominoes; homes burned, families scattered, lives ended. He had seen it all. The screams of children, mothers clinging to corpses, fathers screaming curses at the sky—they were burned into his memory, impossible to forget.
King's rifle felt heavy in his hands, not just because of the weight of the weapon, but because of the weight of the lives it had taken, and the lives he couldn't save.
God, he thought, if You're really up there, tell me why this exists. Tell me why the innocent suffer while men kill each other over borders, crowns, and promises of glory.
He didn't speak it aloud. He didn't pray. He didn't kneel. That was for the fools, for soldiers still clinging to hope. King only thought it, like a bitter mantra. Because no one else would. Not the priests who blessed the weapons. Not the generals who celebrated victories like they were gods themselves. And certainly not the world.
A boy stumbled nearby, barely fifteen, clutching a bloodied shoulder, his eyes wide with fear. King watched, expression hardening. He had no time to help. He couldn't stop. Every second he lingered was a chance for death to catch him too. Still, he hated the thought: This could have been prevented. God could have prevented this.
But He didn't.
King had learned a truth that gnawed at him: war didn't care about innocence. War didn't care about youth. War didn't care about God. War only cared about destruction—and humanity's obsession with control.
He remembered the first time he had seen a man die up close. He had been fourteen, sent to the front with nothing but a uniform and a rifle too heavy for his small hands. The man had been screaming, clutching a wound that no one could stop from bleeding, begging for mercy that did not exist. King had frozen, unable to move. The man's blood had spattered his face, and then he was gone.
God didn't stop it, King had whispered to himself that day. And if He exists, He never will.
Years later, the memory still burned, sharper now, a knife twisting in his chest. That day had taught him more than any sermon ever could: power did not protect, faith did not save, innocence did not matter. Only action mattered—and even then, action was never enough.
He moved forward, stepping over bodies, over mud, over fragments of what had once been homes. Smoke choked the sky, blackening it, blotting out the sun. Shadows stretched across the battlefield like fingers reaching for the living. The living were few, and even they were broken.
King had tried, once, to pray. Not for himself, not for the war, but for the children he couldn't save. He had knelt in a ruined chapel, walls cracked, statues toppled. He had closed his eyes and whispered words he didn't believe in, begged for mercy he didn't expect. Nothing had answered. Not a whisper, not a sign, not a flicker of light. Only silence, heavier than any cannon blast.
That was when he understood: God existed, if at all, only to witness—and perhaps to delight in—the suffering of those who believed in Him.
If He exists, He owes us all an apology, King thought bitterly. Not just for this war, not just for our deaths, but for making us believe there was something worth believing in.
He walked past a group of soldiers laughing at a corpse, faces twisted into grotesque masks. Madness had a way of growing in war, like weeds in a ruined field. King's stomach churned at their laughter, and he had to remind himself: survive, move, don't think too much, don't feel too much.
And yet he thought. Always.
I see their faces, their suffering, their fear. And I know You watch it. If You exist, You watch it. And You do nothing.
A cannon fired in the distance, tearing the air. King flinched, heart hammering. Somewhere, a child screamed. Somewhere, someone's life ended, as meaningless as the soil he walked on.
God is cruel. He repeated it, this time aloud, whispering into the wind. Not for letting the war happen, but for letting us believe in Him while He does nothing.
He closed his eyes for a moment, tasting smoke and ash, remembering all the faces he couldn't forget. Children. Mothers. Fathers. Friends. Enemies. All of them, dead or dying, and all of it in His shadow.
And yet, King kept walking. One step, then another. One village, then another. One body, then another.
Because if he stopped, if he let himself see the horror all at once, he might crumble. And the world could not wait for him to crumble. Not yet.
He exhaled slowly and muttered, I don't believe You care. I don't believe You watch. But You exist, somewhere… I just wish You weren't cruel.
And with that, he moved forward—King, sixteen years old, a soldier, carrying more hatred, doubt, and grief than anyone should survive.
Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled. Not for the dead. Not for the living. Just a reminder that the world continued, cruel, endless, and unforgiving. And King would continue too.