Arjun grew up in a small village where the sun kissed the earth every morning, and children ran barefoot through the fields, their laughter a melody that echoed in the air. His world was simple. His father was a farmer, his mother a weaver, and the only dreams Arjun had were of running through the wide plains, feeling the breeze against his skin. But above all, he cherished the stories his grandfather told him about soldiers. Soldiers who fought for freedom, for honor, for their motherland.

"These men," his grandfather would say, eyes glowing, "they are the ones who stand between us and the chaos of the world. They sacrifice so that we can live in peace."

For Arjun, the idea of being a soldier wasn’t just a duty—it was a calling. It was a chance to protect everything he had ever known, to stand on the frontlines like the heroes in the books and tales. Every evening, before he slept, he would imagine the uniform, the rifle, the camaraderie of soldiers who were more than just men—they were symbols of something greater.

When the time came, Arjun enlisted. The village sent him off with cheers, their hopes tied to his journey. The dream of the soldier, of fighting for the nation, still burned bright in his heart. He was proud. Proud of the honor bestowed upon him, proud to protect his people.

But nothing could have prepared him for what he found at the border.

The first thing he noticed was the silence. It was nothing like the stories. No patriotic music, no cheers. Just the...