Chapter 3: The Cruel Campsite

 

After thoroughly enjoying nature’s blessings, I re-equipped my plate carrier and weapons and resumed my exploration.

Perhaps it was the fresh, clean river that had washed the grime and sweat off me, but my arms and legs now felt lighter. Moving was easier, more efficient.

Feeling uplifted yet maintaining caution, I pressed onward—only to stumble upon a man-made campsite carved out of the woods.

Several white tents were set up, and I could see the remnants of campfires and makeshift cooking stoves. Nearby, animal bones and fruit peels—likely from meal prep—had been discarded into a deep trench.

With this many traces of habitation, I half expected someone to appear at any moment. But not a single soul showed up. In fact, there wasn’t even the faintest trace of human presence.

I knew it might be rude, but I decided to take a look inside one of the nearby tents.

Just to be sure, I called out first:

“Hmm... nothing.”

As expected, no reply. Almost like that was the default here.

I pushed aside the curtain separating the inside from the outside—and was instantly assaulted by a grotesque, stomach-churning scene.

The floor and tent walls were stained deep red with blood.

Piled like discarded cardboard boxes were the bodies of countless people.

Nearby lay axes and blades, still slick with blood—presumably the tools used to carry out the slaughter.

I’d seen the corpses of soldiers torn apart by artillery or machine gun fire—missing limbs, heads—but what lay before me now was on another level of cruelty.

If I stayed here any longer, I’d end up vomiting. I staggered back out of the tent as if fleeing.

“Goddamn... What the hell did I just see?”

No—disgusting doesn’t even begin to describe it. Sickening is more like it.

Those bodies were clearly unarmed. Defenseless civilians. To be able to massacre such helpless people... whoever did this is worse than the Russians. Monstrous.

Bile rose in my throat, but I forced it down and kept moving, continuing my investigation of the camp.

Toward the edge of the encampment, I found something curious by one of the trenches:

Old-fashioned armor and a sword.

Now that I think about it, that slaughter tent had also been filled with blades straight out of a medieval knight’s armory.

“Weird bunch...”

I muttered under my breath as I picked up a helmet caked in mud and dried blood.

The Boshortrush regular army uses proper military-grade equipment. But for militiamen and partisans like me, gear isn’t exactly abundant. Those without money fight with relics like Maxim machine guns or Mosin-Nagants.

But no one—and I mean no one—goes into battle wearing armor and swinging swords. If anyone did, they’d have to be a film actor in a period drama. Running around with a blade on a battlefield full of bullets is basically suicide.

For the record, all my gear came from a retired soldier I know—he passed it on to me.

Having investigated everything I could in this area, I turned my attention toward the forest on the far side of the camp and began to move in.