Two years into deployment, I longed for peace. Leaving my post against orders, I fled to Canarea, a planet once synonymous with serenity but now consumed by indulgence. I lost myself in its hedonistic haze until news broke: the Sodomarians were coming.
With evacuation shuttles full, I resolved to fight. A call-to-arms in the local newspaper drew 4,000 unlikely warriors—students, bartenders, businessmen. For days, we trained relentlessly, transforming civilians into fighters.
On December 29, the Sodomarians landed. We ambushed them in the streets, turning a ghost town into a battlefield. Reinforcements arrived, but so did we, adapting, fortifying, and fighting. By New Year's Eve, only 700 of us remained when allied forces finally arrived, securing victory.
The war had found me even in paradise. As I stood among the survivors, I knew there was no escaping destiny. The final battle awaited in Arathea, and this time, I would face it head-on.
