The young man could only watch as carts were whipped forward and heavy crates were dragged along by slaves. Their backs were bent, their faces hollow. He told himself he had no right to complain. He, too, was worked down to the bone—but at least he was paid.
Days passed as the army pushed deeper into the forest. Tents were raised and torn down again. Hills were climbed, valleys crossed, kilometers swallowed by aching legs.
It was all exhaustion. Cleaning sword handles. Washing clothes in cold rivers. Checking wounds for infection. Hauling sacks. Eating stale, dirt-coated bread from old stockpiles.
Fires out. Fires in.
Stand watch. Sleep.
Wake. Repeat.
Time blurred.
One evening, he noticed the magisters speaking quietly with a knight.
The knight's armor was unlike anything he had ever seen. Dense, dark metal plates layered over his body, scarred and chipped, yet impossibly solid. His helmet was a hard, chiseled triangle of blackened steel, crowned with jagged horns. A deep-red cloak hung from his shoulders, torn and frayed at the edges.
And yet—nothing about him looked poor.
Other knights followed behind him, but he stood taller than the rest. His armor bore damage, yes, but it looked tougher than anything in the camp. As if it had endured blows that would have shattered ordinary plate.
For a moment, the young man let himself imagine becoming someone like that.
He must be a knight… no. Nobility, at least, he thought. No one else would wear armor like that.
The knight's eyes flicked toward him.
Just for a second.
Their gazes met.
The young man looked away immediately.
He walked off, not wanting to irritate a noble—or worse, give someone important a reason to remember his face. His sword felt unbearably heavy at his side, dragging his arm down. But he could not let it touch the ground. If it did, he would be punished.
Then—
A horn blared.
Somewhere. Close.
"Enemy soldiers! Enemy encounter!"
Whatever anyone had been doing—sleeping, eating, resting—stopped at once.
More horns followed. Soldiers scrambled into formation. Someone shoved him forward in the rush. He gulped, his throat dry.
Everyone was exhausted. They all were. But no one admitted it. They stood straight and pretended their legs were not trembling.
Then he saw them.
Hundreds of knights advanced in a slow, relentless line. And beside them, four-legged beasts charged forward—massive, wolf-sized creatures with distorted jaws and gaping mouths. They lunged as the knights swept their blades, steel flashing, blood spraying.
"Knights forward! Soldiers, charge!"
Charge?
What do you mean, charge?
You want me to run at those things and die?
"Cover!" a general shouted.
A moment later, arrows rained down in a dark curtain, vanishing into the clouds before falling into the enemy ranks.
Sweat poured down his back as he ran, weaving through the trees, ducking into shadows.
Corpses lay scattered across the ground.
He didn't want to look.
Every broken body reminded him of what he was.
Mortal.
A monster burst from the undergrowth.
His body moved before his mind could. He twisted aside, swung with everything he had, and screamed as his blade sank into its flesh. It collapsed, twitching.
Another one charged him—larger, with a heavy mane bristling around its neck. He planted his feet and shoved against it with all his strength.
One bite.
That was all it would take.
He saw soldiers being mauled, crushed, torn apart. Corpses vanished beneath dirt and trampling feet.
Then explosions of magic erupted in the distance, violent flashes tearing the air apart.
And still they marched forward.
Undead poured toward them in endless waves.
Knights formed a shield wall ahead. He stood just behind them, stabbing again and again into rotting bodies that refused to fall.
It didn't end.
One mistake meant death.
Screams filled the air—people being eaten alive, people crying out as they were dragged down.
Then he saw him.
The black-horned knight surged forward, his blade sweeping in massive arcs. Heads flew from undead bodies, rolling across the ground in wet, dull thuds.
He could only breathe.
In.
Out.
Huffing. Gasping.
Slashing at anything that slipped past the line.
An undead lunged at him. He cut its head off.
Nearby, a knight was overwhelmed, buried under dozens of undead. The man screamed as he was dragged down. Several swordsmen rushed in, hacking desperately to pull him free.
Another soldier was eaten alive.
Rain began to fall, heavy and cold.
His face was scratched. His armor caked with mud. Blood streaked his hands.
He kept swinging.
Trying not to die. Skeletons were everywhere... As it was here before.
A monster from the deep tore through the sky, its hollow eyes bleached white, empty as bone.
My vision fractured. My eyes widened until they burned. Its claws cut the air as it flew—wide, cruel arcs, as if the sky itself were flesh to be torn.
There was no escape from this hell. I had been conscripted, dragged into it, and whatever dream I once carried had followed me here only to rot into this. Shouting and screaming filled the forest as swordmasters laughed—laughed—as they swung their blades at the thing above us.
Its face was wrong. Bulging. Like an owl's skull stretched over a human face, twisted and pale. Its claws were as long as knives.
The generals' voices cut through the chaos.
"Swordmasters! Protect the rear! For glory!" "Archers—bombard them!"
Glory. The word felt distant, unreal.
Death was coming. I felt it with certainty. The monster's gaze found me, and fear flooded my eyes so sharply it hurt to breathe. I ran—not dropping my sword—swinging in a rhythm born of panic rather than skill. I moved beside another soldier, medieval steel and splintered courage, sword and shield raised more from instinct than hope.
"What—what are—"
He never finished. Another monster slashed him open mid‑word.
I froze.
I am a monster too, I thought dimly. I am part of this. I cause death simply by standing here.
Arrows rose into the sky like rain, blackening the air. Tears fell without permission, blurring everything—forest, soldiers, beasts. I stumbled, then fell, my body hitting the dirt hard.
A corpse lay beside me. I pressed against it, shaking.
Explosions thundered around us. Magic tore the ground apart. My pupils dilated, shrank, dilated again. Heat scorched me. Cold crawled through my bones. Both at once.
The earth was littered with arrows, broken bodies, monsters and men alike. Blood soaked into the soil as if the land itself were drinking.
This is why I do not want friends.
This is why I do not want attachments.
Because they die.
Because death follows.
"I don't want to die," I whispered. "I don't want to die."
The corpse beside me was struck again by arrows, its body jerking uselessly. I stayed still beneath it, as if stillness might make me invisible.
Knights locked shields into a phalanx, dark armor pressed together like a moving wall. The black‑horned knight stood among them, unyielding. Swordmasters fell back with the infantry, regrouping, bleeding, breathing.
Magisters unleashed fire. Air screamed. Elemental force shattered the ground. The bombardment ended, arrows falling away—but the monsters did not.
They kept coming.
Endless.
As though death itself fed them, strengthened them.
I crawled, dragging my sword through the dirt, its tip carving a weak line behind me. Every movement burned. My body screamed for rest, for release, for anything but this.
It did not end.
I lay there, crushed beneath agony, helpless against the ground.
This nightmare—
Let it end.