The battlefield reeked of blood. Its stench clung to everything–the air, bodies, and mud beneath the feet. Warmth still radiated from the corpses, though their eyes had long gone cold.

Rage, which seemed overpowering and perpetual, had disappeared from the dead. The survivors, however, held their lives in both hands. Screams echoed, and the sound of bones being crushed by horses’ gallops accompanied–a cacophony.

Then again, fighting until the bitter end was all they could do, with the notion of winning slowly disappearing from their minds. After all, how could they desire a victory when a simple joke thrown by fate itself would push them into a bottomless valley named death?

So, no matter how many limbs were scattered and no matter how many steel and wood pieces were shattered–unless their legs were rendered useless–they marched forward. 

As long as their blood was still boiling, even if all they could cling onto was a sliver of hope, they would muster that one step to live for one second longer. 

***

February 3rd, 981–in the Era of Equilibrium.

A young man stood amidst the waves of troops flocking in all directions. The sound of their footsteps, including his, never left the battlefield. It only got weaker with every body turned into an empty husk, tumbling around the battlefield. The last scenery they saw would be the very same crimson red, painted in their vision before everything faded into obscurity.

“Make way! Move!”

One would consider this young man’s predicament to be more on the fortunate side. It was only a few minutes until the war hit its two hours mark. To have survived this long, swinging his double-edged sword countless times until sweat drenched his entire body, wasn’t a mere feat even for a foot soldier like him. Now, all he needed to do was repeat the same process with zero room for error. 

But soon, his legs gave up. Without him knowing, after slashing and slicing his enemies to dice, the strength in his lower body left him. He stumbled on the pool of blood below him, reverberating as the ground shook because of hundreds of steps around him. 

“Chase the rebellions down! Don’t let them escape!”

“Color the ground with their blood!”

The young man looked around. The battlefield was a mess. Screams roared from each side, confusing him on where he should go. One person ran towards him in a hurry. The young man didn’t know who he was, nor was he familiar with the face of that person, but the armor adorning that person’s body was enough to tell him that he was an ally. 

After all, the young man was wearing the same set of armor. They were donned in gold-hued armor. Right on their chests, a red-colored head of a creature named Dragon was embroidered on a crest shaped like a shield, where steel adorned its corners from one curve to another. 

The insignia of Aethel Kingdom. 

“Get up!” The man offered his hand. “We can’t let those rebellions–”

Before the man could finish his words, an arrow punched through the side of his head. Its tip buried itself deep in his ear, where blood spurted out to carry the remaining years he still had in store. His eyes popped from his eye sockets, one of them fell like a marble to the ground. Then, that man–now had been reduced to a mere body–fell on the young man. 

“U-urgh!” 

The young man pushed the corpse off his body. Lifeless, that man became just another waste alongside other bodies left here to rot. Swearing he would never become one of them, the young man pushed his legs to the limit. Although trembling, he accepted the pain until he could get back on his feet. 

But fate tried to test him again. 

From the young man’s right side, a soldier rushed towards him–an enemy. Each step propelled him closer to the young man’s blind side. Rage clouded the eyes that stayed on their prey. 

Ten meters away….

Seven meters away….

Five meters away…. 

The next step after that, the enemy was already in range. His hand was near his chest, ready to thrust his sword forward in a horizontal motion. The young man had only realized it, and although his instinct had told him to guard with the shield on his left hand, his body was one move behind. He had to do something within the next second.

The young man turned his body with his left leg as a pivot. He concentrated. A bead of sweat lined up on his face, then another one followed until his forehead and cheeks glistened. His sight never left the enemy’s weapon and footwork. Time appeared to move slower than his adrenaline kicked in. After another step by the enemy, the time to move appeared. 

All of a sudden, however, the young man was staring at the world above him. Clouds stretched endlessly from one corner to another. The sky gazed back at him. Its might stretched endlessly, a visceral scenery that his eyes had the chance to witness. At once, fear struck his heart.

As he spun, a corpse lying behind him interrupted this maneuver. Unaware of that, he stumbled on the rotting corpse and lost his balance. At this very moment, as one of his feet was still in the air–still having found no footing he pretty much needed–avoiding was out of the choices. 

Both his mind and body, still wanting to live, jerked to block the attack–not with the shield, but with his own hand. His right hand, to be more exact. He moved his hand as fast as possible before the blade could reach him and deliver a life-ending blow. His expression stiffened to prepare for the pain that would soon come into contact with him.