Purgatory Prison

In the Second World War of another world, seven alliances and a conflagration that burned for seven years forged the world into a prison. Iron Order's armor rolled over the wheat fields. Red Plains' radiation made its own people rot in the snow. The Imperial Sun fleet guarded the old accounts of an empire on which the sun never set. In the ancient lands of Ink Nation, the voices of their ancestors rang out night after night, gazing upon the glory they had once possessed. The anomalous prison took in those who had broken down. Snow fell; rain came down on a lone person; the deep sea returned ships that had been submerged for decades to the living. In this world of science, were those ghosts and gods? The prison held everyone: soldiers in the trenches, pulling out letters from home as soon as the gunfire stopped; officers before their maps, winning the war games but losing the war; politicians in conference rooms, signing away a village with a single word, "necessity"; merchants in countinghouses, weighing bullets and bread by the pound. But there was humanity in the cage, too. There were big sisters who slipped meat to the bottom of your bowl, and fierce-looking people who shared half a piece of candy on a snowy night. People argued, people laughed, people threw down their pens and picked them back up. Some lost their parents, their names, their memories, yet still saved the last half-kettle of water for someone else. Here, they felt joy and anger, sorrow and happiness, love and loss. They stabbed their own comrades with knives; they endured unrelenting mental strain, a rotting environment, and poison gas filling the air. This was the human world: in the midst of purgatory, humanity had somehow taken root.