"Enemy attack! Enemy attack!"

The eerie war cry coming from the depths of the forests had sounded too close for comfort; his horse already had raised his front legs up on edge, almost dropping him down, a shrill neigh coming out of him.

It had come out of the blue; no signal had been heard and suddenly there were many arrows piercing the night sky and cutting through the clouds of heavy rain. In a matter of seconds, half of the warriors in his squad had already fallen.

Krazar wasn't going to win this fight tonight. Eichelberbog's duty as a fatal soldier was to fight until there were no enemies in sight, but he was bleeding out of the open wound on his right abdomen, the crimson trickling in large spots across his ripped tunic, the fabric too soaked to hide any drops. The world was spinning around him.

He clutched tighter onto his weapon and charged towards the front lines.

There were no emotions attached to the killings, there was never anything more than a job to be done. Eichelberbog was created for this. His life had no meaning other than destroying as many people as he could.

Maybe that's why the soldiers in his troop didn't care so much about him. Of course, he didn't blame anyone for choosing their own life—he couldn't really judge the guys who turned their backs on him and ran away, saving their own heads. It was a survival instinct that guided each and every one of them. He understood.

But even a soldier like him, his whole body patched up with improvements, a creature more monster than human, couldn't get rid of the bitterness stuck at the back of his tongue, an indescribable rage rising inside him while seeing these cowards running away and abandoning him. Leaving him to die alone and unarmed in the middle of a battlefield that would soon be trampled.

He advanced alone.

Their armor was inferior to the one Eichelberbog wielded. They lacked discipline. Their attacks were sloppy, far too predictable. He charged ahead, wielding a mace that could crush bones with ease.

As the men fell before him, a trail of destruction, blood and mangled limbs, a small part of him felt a sick sort of joy. For being the sole cause of the downfall of an entire troop. For being dumped by himself and yet rising up in that ugly mixture of blood and victory.

And yet, bleeding from multiple stab wounds and slashes, as the adrenaline started wearing off, the realization that he was going to die began to settle in.

Alone.

Abject hatred clawed inside the deepest corners of his brain as his eyes fluttered, failing him. With the last remnants of energy, Eichelberbog dropped forward. Everything was darker now, barely distinguishable. Only the smell of despair and death was unmistakable.

Unable to rise, Eichelberbog heard another troop march forward into the field, their heavy boots raising a thunder. It had to be the Codia kingdom again, but, this time, Krazar really wouldn't see victory.

Eichelberbog stood there, in a puddle of blood and mud. If he had any energy left, he'd cut his own neck. It'd be less painful. A Codia troop finding him like this could only mean torture, immediate death at best.

"One of those bastards' alive!" A distant shout reached his ears, and the voice was definitely coming towards him. "Quickly, before he tries to get out of here!"

Too weak to put any strength into it, his attempt at standing up failed. The grass blades, still humid due to the rainfall earlier that day, stuck into his opened wounds.

"What the fuck is this?" A soldier exclaimed, and Eichelberbog pictured their look of horror at the state he was—or perhaps at his appearance itself. And then came the nickname. "The zombie?"

Known as a blood-thirsty and undefeatable creature, Eichelberbog. An ugly creature whose true strength lied under a monstrous exterior, having the body parts taken from different races, having the brains peeking through a skull that was left partially open.

If there was an existence who resembled a living corpse, it was Eichelberbog who always smelled of decay. The terror of every Codia troop, he used to kill countless enemy soldiers.

Zombie. A nickname he was familiar with.

"Quick! Finish this piece of trash before he manages to hurt any of our men!"

Steps. One pair of them coming nearer, and a different voice. Familiar somehow.

"Stop."

And, as if the whole world bent to the commands of that man, silence spread over.

He should've known who's speaking. Even the lower soldier knows of this voice. What was his name again? His mind was numb and blank, lost and abandoned as a small animal between the roots of a dead tree.

The sovereign. The enemy emperor.

"He's hurt," the man spoke again. "Call the healers over and stop standing around. Come on, go."

Eichelberbog forced his eyes open with a will to fight in the direction of the noise, like a shark looking for a single drop of blood in the water.

With difficulty, the image of an austere man formed. Blond hair tied up at the nape of his neck. Crimson red and white fabric—the colors of Codia's flag. Blue eyes, even brighter in the sudden lightning that struck the earth. There was only a glimpse of him, of that vision; a glimpse too brief.

Eichelberbog felt like he was standing in front of a painting stolen from a museum, with beauty so exuberant in the midst of so much decay on that dirty battlefield, but the man moved away so quickly. 

The handsome man turned, walked away. Eichelberbog could've sworn that all the light went with him.

"Hey." A hand fell on his forehead, and Eichelberbog blinked at the icy touch.

The fingers were soft. A healer.

Soft, like someone touching a precious jewel.

And that was the last thing he remembered about that day. The last memory engraved in his mind, a warm and comforting sensation, a shelter for his wounded body. A salve for his scarred soul.