The sun brought no mercy that morning.
It arrived with the cruelty of an alarm that cared nothing for your condition, tearing through the camp’s darkness with harsh light that invaded weary eyes before they were ready.
Before anyone could stretch, yawn, or cling to the remnants of heavy sleep, the officers’ voices cracked through the air like whips.
“On your feet!
Form ranks!
Everyone to your positions, now!”
Every soldier was awakened before dawn.
There was no time for a warm meal or a moment of reflection.
Only cold water splashed across tired faces, the bark of commands, and the rattling of armor being hastily strapped on in the chilly morning air.
The soldiers were assembled into a crude three-line formation: front row, middle row, and rear row.
A human defensive line.
A human shield.
A wall of souls.
Daron glanced to his left and right.
Young faces and old faces.
Grim faces and frightened ones.
Confident men and doubtful men.
They all stood in the same place, carrying the same swords and wearing the same dark leather armor.
And all of them knew what was coming, even if none dared speak of it.
He quickly realized that he had been placed in the rear row.
The safest position in the army.
The last line.
It was supposed to be protected by the soldiers in front of it.
But what was supposed to happen and what actually happened were often two very different things.
The realization did little to ease the dread wrapped around his chest.
It remained there like a tightening band, growing tighter with every passing minute.
And where was Amy?
His eyes searched through the dense formation until he found her.
She stood near the center of the formation, in the middle row.
The same calm steadiness rested on her back and shoulders, as though the war waiting ahead was no different from another training session.
Something stirred uneasily inside him when he saw her position.
The middle row was far more dangerous than his own.
A faint worry took root in his chest.
Silence stretched onward.
Long minutes passed.
Heavy.
Still.
Unmoving.
The soldiers stood in formation while their breaths drifted into the cold air like ghostly mist.
No movement.
No sound.
Only the passing wind.
Then—
The echo of a horn.
Then another.
The first came from their own ranks.
The second answered from the opposing side.
The enemy’s horn.
Even a fool could understand what it meant.
The battle had begun.
It was as though the world itself had drawn a sharp breath.
Everyone surged forward.
A thousand soldiers or more charged with deafening cries, like predators suddenly released from their cages.
Their war cries struck the horizon and returned amplified.
The synchronized pounding of countless feet hammered against the earth in a steady rhythm, as though the ground itself trembled beneath them.
The sound carried a strange feeling.
Awe.
And terror.
Soon, the vanguards of the two armies collided.
They were like opposing waves crashing together with overwhelming force, each carrying its own momentum and life.
Their meeting exploded into chaos.
Steel clashed against steel.
Cries for help.
Shouts of rage.
Screams of death.
It was truly horrifying.
The fighting quickly spread to the middle row.
A strange sense of certainty grew inside Daron’s chest.
It wasn’t imagination.
He knew the battle would reach him within minutes.
His body understood before his mind did, as though every cell within him was calculating distances and predicting the inevitable.
He was afraid.
His mind was nearly blank, as if fear had swept away every thought and every plan.
His body felt heavy, as though his leather armor had turned into solid iron.
His legs were cold up to the knees.
Then the fighting reached the rear row.
It had arrived.
Chaos crossed the ranks and devoured the distance between them with frightening speed.
To his left and right, soldiers grappled, struck, and fell.
Blood.
Everywhere.
Red stains spread across the green earth that had looked beautiful only yesterday.
Bodies piled up.
Men cried out in pain.
Others suffered in silence.
Then another thing assaulted him.
The smell of blood.
It was not a scent words could describe fairly.
Heavy.
Metallic.
Animalistic.
It filled the lungs with something that made you want to vomit and run at the same time.
Then he saw him.
Among the tangled mass of fighting soldiers stood a man wearing a helmet that completely concealed his face.
It was dark and featureless.
The soldier limped noticeably, putting more weight on his right leg than his left.
Blood covered most of his body.
There was no way to tell whether it was his own blood or that of the people he had killed.
Suddenly, their eyes met.
The helmet had two narrow slits.
And behind them—
A pair of eyes stared directly at him.
His legs trembled.
Then they failed him entirely.
They refused to move.
A deadly coldness began at his feet and slowly crept upward through his body.
His heart pounded wildly, so hard and so fast that the rhythm nearly drowned out the sounds of battle around him.
He was afraid.
Afraid on a level he had never experienced before.
Or at least, not since losing his memories.
The man was walking toward him.
Thoughts collided and tangled together.
I have to survive.
I don’t want to die.
I have to kill him if I want to live.
He’s the only obstacle standing between me and survival.
Then suddenly—
His body moved.
It wasn’t a conscious decision.
The thought never traveled from his mind to his hands.
His body had already decided on its own.
It responded to something primitive—something deeper than reason and faster than thought.
He lunged forward with everything he had.
His legs moved before he ever commanded them to.
He gripped his sword with such force that his fingers nearly broke under the pressure.
The leather-wrapped hilt bit into his palm, making his hand tremble.
The blade pierced the man’s chest.
The sword entered.
The body resisted for only an instant.
Then there was no resistance at all.
They fell together.
The soldier collapsed.
Daron crashed down on top of him, his weight pressing against the man who no longer moved.
He was shaking.
Every part of him was shaking.
His hands.
His knees.
His jaw.
It was a truly disgusting feeling.
It felt as though an enormous, merciless boulder was crushing his chest.
Then—
In the middle of that unbearable sensation, another feeling bloomed.
One completely opposite to it.
A feeling that was disturbingly beautiful.
And in that moment, he understood.
He was happy.
Happy that he had survived.
Killing the man felt like an achievement.
His first achievement in life.
Or at least, his first since losing his memory.
Yet he couldn’t stop shaking.
He couldn’t stop feeling fear.
Couldn’t stop feeling dread.
He had no idea how much time had passed since the battle began.
Seconds?
Minutes?
An entire hour?
Time lost all meaning when your body was trapped in terror.
Soon, another sound echoed across the battlefield.
The retreat horn.
He barely managed to stand.
His body was more exhausted than he could have imagined, as though fear alone consumed more energy than fighting ever could.
He limped back toward his army’s position.
His legs felt as heavy as stone.
But his fear did not disappear.
It transformed.
I killed someone.
I was happy about someone’s death.
Why was I happy?
Why did I kill him?
The questions spun endlessly through his mind.
And none of them had answers.