6 January 1942 after Midnight
The night was beautiful
Slim River slept under a blanket of stars, the sky almost too peaceful to be real. The jungle whispered its usual lullabies chirps, rustling leaves, distant animals, and the occasional hoot of an owl. The two teenagers, Aman and Mei Lian, had found shelter beside an abandoned ox cart, half-sunk into the mud, left behind by fleeing villagers.
It was the first time in days they had time to rest without fear nipping at their backs.
Aman lay on the cold dirt, arms behind his head, staring up at the sky. His clothes were torn, smudged with dried blood, dirt, and soot. But for once, he smiled small and genuine.
Mei Lian peeked over the edge of the cart where she had curled up in the straw. "You look like you're actually enjoying this."
"I am," Aman replied. "Not being chased, not being shot at. No dead bodies nearby. It's practically a vacation."
She chuckled softly, brushing strands of hair from her eyes. "You're terrible."
"I try."
They laughed, genuinely for a moment, it felt like two kids teasing each other after school, not two survivors of two massacres. Jitra. Kampar. Those names used to make their hearts tighten. Now, they barely stirred a reaction.
"You ever think about what we'd be doing if none of this happened?" Mei Lian asked.
"Yeah," Aman said, eyes still on the sky. "I'd probably be failing school, getting yelled at by my uncle. You?"
"I wanted to be a nurse," she whispered. "Before all this."
Aman turned his head toward her, studying her silhouette against the moonlight. "You'd make a good nurse."
"Because I'm kind?"
"No. Because you've seen so much death now, nothing could surprise you. Plus your mother also a nurse she take care me well that time"
She snorted, more amused than offended. "Thanks?"
They talked for a while longer, their voices low, blending into the night. Finally, Mei Lian fell asleep in the cart, breathing slow and steady. Aman remained on the ground, listening, watching, letting his thoughts drift.
Then, without warning
BOOM.
An explosion shattered the night. The ground trembled beneath them. Mei Lian jolted awake, heart pounding, her hands gripping the edge of the cart.
Aman sat up immediately, eyes narrowing toward the sound.
Another explosion. Then machine gun fire. Then screaming.
The jungle lit up with the red-orange glow of flames in the distance.
Mei Lian climbed down from the cart. "That's..."
"British positions," Aman said before she finished. "The battle started."
She hesitated. "Should we go? Or stay put?"
"We should stay here," she added quickly. "It's too dangerous. We already survived two of these."
But Aman didn't move. He stared toward the direction of the fire like a moth drawn to flame.
"Don't tell me you want to go look?"
He didn't answer immediately.
"We should be running from this," Mei Lian said, her voice trembling. "Not... not sneaking toward it."
"I know," Aman replied softly. "I know."
Yet neither of them moved. Not away, not closer. Just stood there, frozen by the familiar rhythm of war. The sounds of death didn't shock them anymore. They were oddly soothing expected, like thunder before a storm.
And that terrified them more than the battle itself.
"It's strange," Mei Lian whispered. "Why am I not crying? Why aren't we scared?"
"Maybe we ran out of fear," Aman muttered.
They edged closer, drawn by a morbid magnetism. The tree line opened to reveal a higher ridge perfect vantage point. From there, they saw the battlefield below, lit by tracer fire, burning vehicles, and the dull silver of moonlight.
The British defenses had collapsed. What once was a barricade of sandbags and steel had become a slaughterhouse.
Japanese tanks rolled over British trenches like toy soldiers. Flames erupted from bunkers. Screams pierced the night, followed by sharp cracks of rifle fire.
They watched soldiers trying to surrender being gunned down.
They saw a man burn alive, his body twisting, arms flailing. Another was dragged from his hiding spot and bayoneted repeatedly while still begging in English.
"Why… why am I just watching?" Mei Lian murmured, her voice small, cracking. "I should be sick. I want to be sick."
But she didn't turn away.
Instead, she gripped Aman's arm tightly, grounding herself.
Aman said nothing at first. Then he smiled.
Not wide. Not joyful. But a thin, unsettling curve at the corner of his mouth.
"Kill," he whispered. "Kill each other more and more. That must be what you like, huh?"
His voice wasn't loud. He wasn't shouting. He was almost... musing. As if reading a poem to himself.
Mei Lian looked at him, horrified. "Aman…"
He blinked, seeming to remember she was there. "Sorry. Just... thinking out loud."
But he didn't look sorry.
For two hours, they watched. No longer just survivors. No longer just children. Observers. Spectators. Audiences to a grim performance they'd seen twice before.
The British undertrained, undersupplied, and exhausted were overrun. They died badly. They died begging. They died in pieces.
The Japanese moved like phantoms methodical, relentless. Efficient. Too efficient.
When it began to quiet only embers left of what had once been an army Aman stood.
"I want to see it," he said.
"No," Mei Lian grabbed his arm. "We've seen enough."
"I want to see closer."
"Aman, don't"
But he took a step forward.
And then another.
Mei Lian stood frozen. A part of her wanted to run after him, pull him back. Another part whispered: Don't you want to see too?
No more bullets flew. The worst was over.
But curiosity had teeth. And they had been bitten too many times.
"I want to see their faces," Aman said, walking now, heading down the slope. "I want to see what's left."
"Why?" she asked, voice trembling.
He didn't answer.
And to her own horror, Mei Lian followed.
They stepped into the aftermath not as victims this time, but as wanderers drawn by the wreckage of man's cruelty. The same place where fate had once dragged them Jitra, Kampar now pulled them in by their own feet.
Slim River had devoured another army tonight.
And it had two new guests.