Ireonix could go on. His gaze changed completely, and some of his comrades also noticed a slight shift in the tone of his eyes. Perhaps it poetically reflected the blood of the lost soldiers, but one thing was certain: Ireonix missed them and suffered when he remembered the deaths of his comrades.
Months passed, and a year had passed. Ireonix had matured considerably, both mentally and physically. The forced labor had given him an enviable physique at a young age, the result of lifting the bodies of those killed in combat and the crates dropped by reinforcements. However, the war seemed endless, and they were finally approaching the capital of the enemy nation. Suddenly, they were startled by a buzzing sound, not from bees or flies, but from something similar with wings, yet deadly: a group of 100 tomcats were approaching the troops of Ireonix's proud nation. The sergeants confirmed an emergency retreat, but Ireonix decided to take matters into his own hands and attempt what was perhaps an impossible feat for a human, perhaps possible for someone whose vision surpassed human reflexes. He was the only one running in the opposite direction, his heart aching from the cramped space between his ribs, to catch what was an even smaller plane. He had previously taken flying lessons, having grown increasingly interested in the experience of soaring through the skies, but his age and size had prevented him from reaching the controls. Nevertheless, it was time to try.