He was tearing at his face without thinking, crawling across the bloodied ground as arrows rained down around him.
A flash of light caught my eye to the left, barely three feet away. A noble figure—a knight—was charging through the front, unyielding, relentless. Flames licked at his armor, melting it to molten metal, exposing flesh blistering and blackening beneath the fire.
And yet, he did not fall. Not then. Not before he struck down one monster, then another, his sword dancing through the undead like fire itself.
White-furred beasts with eyes glowing like molten plasma surged toward him. Their gaze was a thick, viscous torrent, spilling from their sockets like liquid fire. He seized a spearman's weapon, flung it with a sharp flick, and blocked another with his shield while driving his sword through its chest.
Finally, he collapsed. My hand shot out instinctively—but my left eye had gone blind from the shock of the explosion. My ears rang, buzzing as if the world itself were tearing apart.
"Get up!" a voice barked.
My face was pale, bloodied, and slack with fatigue. "Get up, young soldier—the battle's not over." I could only grip the offered hand, feeling the smirk tug at his lips.
Ahead, a man in medium leather armor wielded a spear. The general's voice cut over the chaos: "Tactical back! Back!"
Knights formed shields in a straight line, retreating slowly, methodically. I was carried—or at least held—by hands I did not recognize. Irritation stirred within me, yet beneath it a faint gratitude lingered. Even now, someone would lift me when I could not stand on my own. They didn't know me. They didn't owe me this.
Somewhere, in this wrecked battlefield, one person did not help—but another did.
Arrows screamed from the sky. We snatched shields from fallen comrades, huddling beneath them, crawling backward through the hellish expanse toward the enemy's lines.
Behind us, the chained monstrosities came—humanoids with streaks of red slicing across their mouths, bandages wrapping grotesquely over their features. Magisters herded them, orchestrating chaos. The monsters clashed, mauling each other in brutal order.
And the soldiers laughed.
"Look at them fall! Witness the might of our order! It will not be tarnished!"
Robert was tended to, and I watched, realizing that even in all this blood and fire, these people—the soldiers, the knights, the magisters—were mine.. My own group...
Then the sky erupted in white light, a sunbeam slicing through the clouds. Two figures appeared amidst the brilliance.
A young boy grasped a lady under his arm. "Stop the monsters from attacking her," he ordered, sighing with effort. She retreated, wielding a pulse of magic that pushed the creatures back toward the forest. Adam scanned the battlefield: wounded soldiers, torn and pierced, left in grotesque heaps by undead and monsters alike.
Then came a new wave: an army, marching from the distant lands, their purpose unclear. Adam's grimace deepened as recognition struck.
They were the same people...
[Adam]
Arrows flew. Adam moved without thinking, catching one midair with his hand, charging forward toward the generals.
"Arrows! Fire!" a voice roared, followed by another: "Stop!" A dark-helmeted figure raised his hands, advancing wearily toward Adam. "He is not an enemy."
Adam seethed. Someone had just shot at him—a near-fatal mistake in this chaos... Someone could be killed if he was normal...
As ith a simple gesture, he healed the injured soldiers around him: wounds closing, bones knitting themselves back together, flesh reshaping as if time itself had bent for their salvation.
"What… what are you doing here?" Adam demanded.
No answer came. The knight remained silent, helmet hiding his face from the soldiers. Finally: "I am Alexander. I come on a mission from the Order—for an expedition."
We finally landed on solid ground. A witch's gaze cut through the haze, deadly and piercing. "Adam, you are far too self-righteous. You do not even know them."
"Exactly," Adam replied, eyes scanning the shackled slaves forced into labor. That is why I act as I do. I do not know them.
The knight hovered, taller than anyone else around, majestic, almost otherworldly. "Why are these people in chains?"
"They are prisoners."
"Criminals? Then imprison them. There is no need for this cruelty."
The magister—an old man—scowled. A young general with a gleaming sword, a golden-armored archidon, and a small but formidable knight approached. And behind them, the black knight.