Right

Two great armies faced each other. Two armored forces with arguments of steel. The men turned their weapons against each other. In a few moments, they would fall upon each other and begin killing. Which was better? Neither knew, but each fought to defend his own. Another battle would soon begin, one that would resolve nothing.

He was there too. He stood among similar, indistinguishable soldiers. Fear united them all, transforming them into puppets holding weapons. He stood, clutching a banner. The most precious thing he had ever seen. He was ready to die for it. But neither he nor any other soldier could realize that he was actually holding a long pole with a red flag unfurled, with some colorful painting on it. For him and the puppets with him, it was the most magnificent symbol. A symbol of the cause they had known since childhood, in which they believed, which kept them alive… and for which they would soon begin killing.

Finally, at a signal from a better-dressed puppet, the battle began, and the large armored regiments charged at each other. He too moved, still holding the banner. Like the other puppets, he lashed out at the enemy with an incomprehensible, blind rage. Steel clashed against steel. The earth opened its weary mouth and began to drink blood in disgust. But he no longer saw blood, suffering, or pain. He shut off his mind and did what others did—fought.

He still proudly held the red flag, giving strength to his entire regiment.

The fight was fierce. Besides… what isn't fierce? Many, many, many died. Most of the puppets later felt that too many had died. His regiment began to win. The banner he held waved proudly above the bodies of his enemies like a stick stuck in a pile of mangled corpses. Suddenly, the enemy saw a glimmer of hope—the toppling of the banner. A large group charged at him. He defended himself bravely, and several began to help him, but all perished. Eventually, he too began to weaken, but he continued to fight and defend the banner. He was wounded many times, but he persevered. Unfortunately, under the enemy's pressure, the banner slipped from his hands and fell to the ground. With his last remaining strength, he picked it up and continued fighting.

Finally, peace returned to the battlefield. He could breathe a sigh of relief. He was greatly surprised to find that the enemies were not attacking him, but were simply pressing forward. What terrified him was the loss of his cause. He couldn't bear to watch his friends being slaughtered, and what he had always believed in slowly fading into oblivion. He didn't understand why the battle had taken such a sudden turn, and why his cause was suddenly in a losing position. After all, he had defended the banner and raised it from the ground at a critical moment. He looked with pain and resignation at the torn flag fluttering in the wind, and when he saw it, he froze with terror and stood there until the end of the battle...

The flag was blue...