Hello everyone, I hope you are doing fine and well. I truly mean that.
I'm writing to explain exactly what happened over the past half year and why updates were so long, random, and frustratingly slow.
You see, my father was diagnosed with tuberculosis (TB). The unfortunate part was that we did not have enough money to get all the required medical tests and treatment. It was discovered that his lungs were filled with water, almost half a liter. He had severe coughing fits that lasted for minutes, constant fever, extreme exhaustion, and he was unable to work. He was so tired that he couldn't even sleep properly. Many nights, he had to sit on a chair just to breathe, drifting in and out of sleep from sheer exhaustion.
That was our reality for nearly six months.
Even after family support and help with the operation, I can say honestly that without that help, handling it alone would have been a death sentence for us.
Naturally, most of my focus during this time was on fear, constant fear that I might lose him. My friend had lost his father similarly just in December. The mental and emotional strain was overwhelming.
I started working on Webnovel not only because I had this vision for a long time, but also because I saw others there using Patreon, and I had hope, just a small hope, that maybe I could reduce the burden on his shoulders. And it did. I cannot express how much it meant to me, mentally and physically. Even a few hundred dollars makes a huge difference when you are running a household under medical stress.
Now, after the operation, there is a lot of relief. The TB treatment is still ongoing, but his breathing has improved a bit, and things are finally stabilizing a bit. He still can't work on anything and has coughs that pain him, but the treatment is going well.
For the first time in months, I have some time for myself again, a good thing, I can sleep at night, not just from exhaustion every day.
From now on, I can finally commit seriously. I will post regularly, work harder, and begin writing my own original fiction. I also have some good ideas planned. If you read my TWD fanfic, I hope you liked it. Sadly, it's only 5 chapters so far, but I will continue it, so don't worry.
...
Some of you have been here for a very long time. I completely understand and do not blame anyone who just quit due to my lack of updates. Your time should never feel wasted.
But some of you stayed. Some of you came back. You were here, and you didn't know my thing, and I didn't want to say at that time, and come off as some guilt-tripping guy, that was not me, I guess.
Still, you like the work to come here on Webnovel or paid, I truly cannot thank you enough.
Yes, this is fanfiction, but in these times, your support on Webnovel work meant everything. It reminded me that I can still do something meaningful, that my life is not as hopeless as it felt for years.
So yes, going forward, there will be original fiction, along with carefully edited and translated fanfiction.
Thank you, everyone.
I won't disappoint you any further.
......
Chapter 7: Medical Conditions
But after a closer look, Dos realized the situation was far worse.
The cross-section of the wound clearly showed muscle, tendon, blood vessel, and bone. Pink flesh wrapped around splinters of ghastly white, shards lodged deep in the meat.
Removing them was nearly impossible. What had been muscle now resembled cotton wadding, scorched and torn, a ruined doll spilling its stuffing. It would go septic. It had to be disinfected. After an emergency bandage, Dos grabbed a passing Quartermaster.
"Quick! Medical alcohol." Dos pointed at 9372 on the ground.
The Quartermaster glanced down, then waved Dos back. Dos stepped away three paces, giving the medic room. The medic lifted 9372's helmet off.
Then the Quartermaster unslung his weapon, raised it, and put a round through 9372's head. The Quartermaster's gun was on automatic. A hot brass casing rang against the ground. White smoke vanished as quickly as 9372's life.
One bullet, one life.
"What the hell are you doing!" Dos finally snapped. "Isn't there medicine in your pouch!" He lunged forward, grabbing the Quartermaster's collar. "Tell me what you just did, bastard!"
The Quartermaster shoved him off. "Gave him the Emperor's Peace. In life, shame. In death, atonement..." Muttering, he began stripping the gear.
Dos steadied himself, noted the man's number, and headed for the Regimental Command camp.
Gunshots still cracked behind him.
Dos wasn't stupid; he would make 0361 explain.
He kicked a roadside tree in fury, startling the roosting ravens. The greedy scavengers perched on poison-dusted, withered trunks, waiting for the medics to leave so they could feast. Their caws sounded like mockery, mockery that Dos had done nothing, and his rage grew.
Dos flung back the command tent flap. 0361 and several lieutenant-colonel aides looked up.
"What's with those Quartermasters!" Dos demanded.
0361 studied him for a moment, then waved the aides out. "What do you mean, 'Wrong.'" 0361's tone was flat, almost bored.
"Why are Quartermasters killing the wounded!"
0361 was silent. "You are even more troublesome than the last Commissars. Listen, Meddle less, live longer."
"Meaning what?" Dos felt the threat. His right hand settled on his bolt pistol, hackles rising like a startled cat.
"Are you stupid? Krieg needs Commissars who read the battlefield and cut losses, not sentimental onlookers. Your sort only makes the dying worse. You understand nothing..." 0361 paused. "Drop the useless pity, my advice."
0361 composed himself, then ignored Dos entirely.
Dos weighed much in an instant, yet none of it was worth saying aloud. "You hardly act like a Krieger. I'll be watching you, Colonel 0361."
...
After he left, he wondered, What did 0361 mean?
Dos looked tough but was hollow inside, panic on full throttle.
A Departmento Munitorum Astra Militarum unit, Krieg obeyed orders yet stayed famously untamed. A Commissar was merely the Department's eyes. Plenty died each year from shots in the back, and the Munitorum looked the other way.
His legs felt like boiled noodles, and there was nothing he could do.
Yet reason said 0361 had no cause to kill him now. Krieg hungered for "atonement." To them, death was a reward. The Colonel wouldn't risk slowing the advance by removing him at this point.
"After all, we're comrades, better to stay friendly," Dos muttered. He knew it was wishful thinking, a bubble one poke could burst.
What next? Front-line overseer? Please, he'd already begged them not to charge. Oversee what, exactly?
He sighed again. What good is a Commissar? Raise morale, execute the faithless and cowardly, lead charges when needed, yes, that was the job, but NOT IN BETWEEN KRIEGS!
Political Commissars usually shoved guns against their troopers' heads to make them charge, backed by Military Police, Probitor Commissars, and company-level commissars keeping watch.
Look at him, though, one lone commissar without a single enforcer, practically begging them not to charge so they don't all die. No wonder he was only a Colonel-Commissar. He was pure window dressing.
The officer whose job was to force others forward had become the regiment's biggest coward. What nonsense was this? The world had turned upside down!
Dos shook his head and drove the thought away. Come on, a commissar leading the retreat is just too outrageous.
"Forget it. Let me check how the trench repairs are coming. Even malingering has to be done with style."
Dos entered the trench. Every section had been braced with planks. Sandbags lined the rim for cover. Forward machine-gun nests projected ahead. Nearly invisible barbed wire blended into the surroundings.
A Siege Regiment, all right, the line was built like a fortress. Even Dos, who'd spent years in advanced courses, could find no fault. Death Rider pairs patrolled for surprises. Grenadiers held the MG nests and bunkers. Engineers and Guardsmen stood in loose order inside the trench.
Yet Dos caught an out-of-place noise.
"Three takes one, Leman Russ plus Ultramarines."
"Beat that! Stormhammer plus Emperor's Warblade!"
"Damn, where'd you pull that Nuke card?"
"Don't ask. I win. You owe me two tins of fruit."
"Yeah, yeah..."
Dos hunted around, finally spotting them in a corner. "You lots, what are you all up to?" he demanded, hands behind his back and face stern.
The onlookers stiffened. Their necks creaked around, then relaxed when they saw it was only Dos.
"By the God-Emperor, I thought it was our commissar," one blurted.
Dos frowned. So you're not afraid of anyone who isn't your commissar, is that it?
Dos cleared his throat. "What are you doing?"
"Playing cards, care to join?" the man on the floor asked, scooping up the scattered hand.
Dos was stunned. Not only were they unafraid of a non-commissar, but they were also inviting a commissar to gamble? Whose troopers are these brave?
Instead of answering, Dos asked, "What's on the ground?" He pointed at two small metal tins.
"Fruit rations, win the hand and they're yours," the trooper said slyly, "or trade something for them."
Dos studied him with amusement. The kid had obviously pinched them from stores and now wanted to trade a portion back, hoping the Quartermaster would look the other way while keeping the rest for himself.
Dos's gloved fingers stroked his chin as if pondering, while he memorized both men's faces and serial numbers.
"Twelve bolt shells?" Dos named a low but acceptable price, curious how high the haggle would go.
"No deal, minimum fourteen." The man shook his head.
Little greedy fatter, dont worry, later you'll swallow more than you can chew. Dos already planned how to settle accounts.
Dos hefted his pouch, exactly fourteen shells, and tossed it over.
"Tins are yours, sir. I'll be off, then."
Watching the trooper scurry away, Dos shook his head. "Kid's green, no finesse, nothing like me back in the day."
Right, Dos had pulled the same stunt in the Schola Progenium. Later... well, since he'd been drenched, he'd tear off others' umbrellas and kick them into the gutter too.
Dos had already guessed their unit: Stuar Third Guards Regiment, a fledgling Astra Militarum regiment of local recruits, newly raised.
Not exactly unknown, more like unheard of. Inferior troop quality was normal. He'd just be doing them a favor by weeding out the rot.
On his way to stash the tins, Dos saw a Guardsman standing half out of the trench on a sandbag, straight in a heretic's sights.
Without thinking, Dos tackled the man. A heavy round cracked past his back and splintered the trench wall, showering him with wood splinters.
Almost simultaneously, a bunker Grenadier vaporized the heretic with a crimson las-beam.
"6827! I know you, Krieg, don't care about dying, but your deaths have to count, understand?" Dos loathed their disregard for life. He suspected they'd lost all humanity.
6827 merely glanced at Dos and resumed his post.
Dos cursed, retrieved his cap, and went about his business; he hadn't forgotten his real errand.
[End of Chapter]