Reincarnated with the Country System

Eli lay beneath the cooling corpse of the demi-human, his breath coming in ragged gasps, muscles trembling with the aftermath of combat.

Above him, the war raged on.

The ambush had been a brutal. For a moment, it had looked like they might be overrun. But moments were fleeting things, and now, now the tide had turned.

The distant rumble of engines announced it.

More trucks. More men.

The Guardsmen had come in force.

Eli shoved the dead weight off his chest, rolling to his side, sucking in the cold, acrid air. His fingers found his rifle where it had fallen in the dirt, and he pushed himself upright, boots digging into the torn-up ground. Rolf was nearby, his face streaked with grime, panting hard as he reloaded his Lee-Enfield No. 4 Mk I, hands moving fast and practiced.

"About fucking time," Rolf muttered, snapping the bolt forward.

Beyond them, down the battered road, fresh convoys rolled in, kicking up mud and debris. The first wave of reinforcements had already disembarked—troops in dull green greatcoats, rifles in hand, moving with the disciplined lethality of trained killers.

The first heavy machine gun opened fire.

A Vickers Mk I, its long, water-cooled barrel shrouded in steam, chattered from its tripod mount, sending a stream of .303 rounds screaming through the trees. The bullets carved through flesh and bone, turning charging rebels into jerking, tumbling corpses before they could even get close.

Then came the MG 42s.

A relic of an older war, perhaps, but still one of the most feared weapons to ever spit lead. Mounted on bipods, they roared like starving wolves, spraying 1,200 rounds per minute. The Latvian rebels had no chance. Their muskets, their swords, their wooden shields—couldn't protect them.

Eli watched as one rebel, a bearded man in a ragged coat, tried to sprint for cover. The MG 42 caught him mid-stride. His body jolted violently as the rounds ripped through him, his limbs flailing, blood misting in the cold air. He collapsed in a twitching heap, his rifle falling forgotten beside him.

A Bren gun team set up on the left flank, the gunner bracing against the bipod, his assistant feeding fresh magazines. Short, controlled bursts of .303 rounds lanced through the undergrowth, cutting down anything that moved.

And still, the Guardsmen advanced.

The rebels fought like cornered animals—because that's what they were. For every dozen that fell, another would charge, screaming, desperate. Some of them were just boys, faces sunken with hunger, dressed in tattered uniforms that barely fit. Others were wild-eyed men, gripping rusted sabers or axes, their expressions twisted with hate.

But hate was no match for hot lead.

Eli moved forward, his Lee-Enfield tucked against his shoulder. He fired—crack—the rifle bucking against his grip. A rebel crumpled, clutching his gut, eyes wide with shock.

A demi-human barreled toward them, its muscular frame covered in crude armor, jagged teeth bared in a snarl. Eli barely had time to chamber another round before it was on them.

Garrick stepped in.

The shotgun blast was deafening.

A Winchester Model 1897, loaded with buckshot, barked flame as Garrick emptied a shell straight into the demi-human's chest. The creature staggered, a ragged hole torn through its torso, but it didn't fall.

"Motherfucker," Garrick growled, racking the pump with a sharp shink-shunk and firing again.

This time, the thing dropped.

But there were always more.

The Latvians had no artillery, no bombs, no proper heavy weapons. Their strategy was simple: overwhelm with numbers, fight with whatever they had, die with teeth bared.

But courage didn't stop bullets.

As the Guardsmen pressed forward, the rebel line collapsed. Some tried to flee, scattering into the trees like frightened animals. Others fought to the last, taking cover behind overturned carts, behind dead horses, behind the bodies of their own fallen.

It didn't matter.

The Lewis guns were up now, their pan magazines rattling as they poured fire into the last clusters of resistance. The rebels' final stronghold, a battered wooden outpost at the base of the hill, became a killing ground. Grenades arced through the air—Mills bombs, their fuses hissing before detonating in brutal bursts of shrapnel.

Eli saw one man, a Latvian officer, standing in the open, his coat torn, his face streaked with dirt. He raised his sword in a final act of defiance.

A burst from an MG 42 shredded him where he stood.

Then—silence.

The ground was a wasteland of bodies, blood pooling in the cold earth, steam rising from the corpses. Some of the rebels still twitched, gurgling, eyes wide with the last moments of agony.

Eli exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the frigid air. His hands were steady now, steady in the way only a soldier's hands could be after enough killing.

Garrick lit a cigarette with shaking fingers. Rolf sat on a broken crate, wiping his blade clean on a dead man's coat. The Guardsmen moved through the carnage, kicking over bodies, searching for survivors—either to take prisoner or to put down.

A rebel woman lay against a shattered cart, her breath ragged, a rifle still clutched in her hands. A Guardsman walked past her and shot her in the head without breaking stride.

Eli didn't flinch.

This was war.

The officer in charge, a hard-eyed bastard named Captain Volker.

"Secure the area," he barked. "Salvage what we can. Then burn the rest."

No one argued.

"Private Eli!"

Eli turned, snapping to attention despite the exhaustion weighing on his bones. "Sir."

Volker didn't look at him—his cold gaze was fixed on the smoldering wreckage of the rebel outpost.

"Collect the nameplates. Proper procedure. I want every one accounted for before we move out."

Eli nodded. "Yes, sir."

There was no emotion in the order. No hesitation. The dead were no longer soldiers—they were paperwork now.

He moved.

The first body was a young private, barely old enough to shave. His face was frozen in surprise, a single arrow punched neatly between his eyes.

Eli unbuttoned the collar of the man's greatcoat, revealing the dull metal tag hanging from a cord around his neck.

MEYER

4872-17

He slipped it into the small canvas pouch at his belt.

The next was an older sergeant, his chest torn open by shrapnel. His tags were slick with blood. Eli wiped them clean on the dead man's coat before reading:

R. KOHLER

2291-17

He worked in silence, the only sounds the crackling of distant fires and the occasional bark of a pistol shot as the clean-up detail executed wounded rebels. Some of the bodies were missing limbs. Some were missing heads. A few were so mangled he had to dig through the gore to find the chain, the metal tags sometimes fused to blackened skin by fire.

Rolf passed him, dragging a dead Latvian by the ankles toward the pyre. He paused, watching Eli pry a tag from a corpse with half its face missing.

"Damn," Rolf muttered. "That's Bauer. Used to cheat at cards."

Eli didn't answer. He dropped the tag into the pouch.

M.BAU

5591-17

This one was fresh—a medic, judging by the red cross on his armband. His throat had been slit. The tags were clean.

L. VOGT

3168-44

The pouch grew heavier.