Shouts and commands rang through the chaos.
"Forward! Go forward!"
"Hold the formation!"
"Die, you bastard!"
Such cries were common in cramped and desperate moments, and none were more desperate than war itself. The battlefield had become the stage for a brutal conflict between two kingdoms that had failed to reach a peaceful accord. Kings spoke of diplomacy in distant halls, yet it was the soldiers who bled beneath the open sky. It was a cruel imbalance of fate.
The armies clashed upon a vast stretch of grassland that rolled endlessly toward the horizon. Steel met steel as men collided in violent struggle. Blades flashed in hands, arrows whistled through the air, and the earth trembled beneath the roar of battle.
Amid the clash stood a squad leader, holding back an advancing enemy while barking orders to his men. His eyes caught sight of a soldier lingering behind the line, standing stiff and uncertain.
"Hey! You there! Move to the front. Don't hide behind us like a coward!" he shouted.
"Yes, sir!"
The young soldier swallowed his fear and stepped forward into the chaos.
Watching the strange exchange, another soldier beside the squad leader frowned in confusion.
"Who is that? Why does he look like that?" he asked.
"Hm?" The squad leader glanced briefly in the direction of the advancing figure while parrying a strike. "Oh, him. His name is Sashay. A failed soldier."
"A failed soldier? What do you mean by that?" the man repeated, disbelief clear in his voice.
"He has no talent for the sword."
The squad leader spoke casually even as he deflected another blow, his words slipping between the clang of steel.
"Then why is he here? Why would someone like that join the army? Isn't this just suicide?" the soldier pressed.
"To be honest, I don't know either." the squad leader replied with a shrug.
At that very moment, Sashay had already reached the front line.
Before him stretched an endless wave of enemy soldiers, pressing forward without pause. In his right hand he held a short gladius, while his left carried a small buckler shield. His dark hair was mostly hidden beneath a leather helmet, though a few strands slipped free. His face was ordinary, the kind one might see among merchants in the market square.
Yet there was one thing about him that did not belong on a battlefield.
He was smiling.
Not the grin of madness nor the sneer of cruelty, but a quiet, radiant smile, as though he had just stepped out of a wedding rather than into the storm of war.
Since childhood, Sashay had trained with the sword. Now at the age of twenty-two, many would expect a man with such years of practice to wield a blade with mastery.
But the truth was the opposite.
His skill had never improved. No matter how long he trained, he remained stagnant.
Most men would curse their misfortune. They would say the world was unfair, blame fate, or even accuse the heavens themselves. But Sashay was not like most men.
He believed that effort could surpass talent.
To him, every person was given the same opportunity to strive, and that belief had become the unshakable principle by which he lived.
With that same unwavering smile upon his face, Sashay swung his gladius in swift arcs, striking in every direction. Steel flashed as he pushed forward through the press of enemies.
The opposing soldiers quickly returned the assault.
"You bastard!" one of them shouted after receiving a shallow cut from Sashay's blade.
With a roar, the enemy soldier surged forward and launched a fierce counterattack.
Sashay stepped lightly to the side, avoiding the strike with surprising ease. The spear's tip sliced through the air where his chest had been a moment before. He tilted his head slightly and spoke, his voice calm despite the chaos surrounding them.
"Oh? Is that you, Phil? It seems we meet again."
Phil paused, his grip tightening around the shaft of his spear. A crease formed on his brow.
"Hm? How do you know my name? I swear I've never met you before." he replied sharply.
Sashay spread both arms in a loose, almost mocking gesture, as though greeting an old friend rather than facing an enemy on the battlefield.
"What do you mean, Phil? This is already the tenth time we've met." he said lightly.
"Stop lying, you freak!"
With a burst of anger, Phil lunged forward. The weapon in his hands was a long spear, its steel tip gleaming faintly beneath the pale daylight. He thrust it toward Sashay with speed and precision, not once but in a relentless succession of strikes.
Whoosh!
Whoosh!
Whoosh!
The air split with each thrust, the sound sharp and cutting as the spear carved through empty space. Yet strangely enough, Sashay avoided every attack with effortless grace. His movements were smooth and natural, as though he had already known where the spear would strike.
He shifted his footing, leaning slightly to one side, then the other, allowing each deadly thrust to pass him by with only inches to spare.
Phil finally halted his assault, stepping back to catch his breath. His eyes narrowed with growing suspicion.
"Are you some kind of fortune teller?" How are you reading my attacks like that?" he asked, his voice heavy with disbelief.
Sashay merely smiled, the same quiet smile that had followed him since the beginning of the battle.
"I told you already, this is our tenth meeting." he replied calmly.
Phil's eyes widened, his expression tightening as Sashay's words sank in. Countless questions rushed through his mind, colliding with one another in confusion. Yet before any of them could find their way to his lips, Sashay moved.
The smile on his face remained, calm and unchanged, but his posture shifted with quiet resolve.
In a single step, he closed the distance between them.
The gladius in his hand flashed.
Phil tried to react. Instinct drove him to raise his spear, attempting to intercept the strike, but his movement came a heartbeat too late. Sashay's blade slipped past the wooden shaft with a precise, controlled arc.
Steel met flesh.
The gladius cut cleanly across Phil's side before he could properly defend himself.
Phil staggered backward. The spear fell from his grasp as pain seized his body. His legs weakened beneath him, strength draining from his limbs as though the earth itself had pulled it away. He sank to one knee, gasping for breath that refused to fill his lungs.
Slowly, with fading strength, Phil lifted his gaze.
His eyes met Sashay's.
His mouth parted slightly as a single, fragile question escaped him.
"How…?"
"I already told you—"
Before Sashay could finish his sentence, Phil's body collapsed forward onto the grass. He did not move again.
For a moment, Sashay simply stood there, looking down at the fallen soldier. Around them the battle still raged, steel clashing and men shouting, yet the moment felt strangely quiet.
A faint sigh escaped him, touched with something close to disappointment.
"Oh, Phil, this is the tenth time we have crossed blades."
He paused, shaking his head ever so slightly.
"And yet… your habits have not changed in the slightest."
Cries of agony suddenly rose from the battlefield.
"Oahhhh!""Aaaahh!"
The desperate shouts of dying men echoed across the grassland, coming from behind Phil's fallen body, from the side of the enemy forces. Several soldiers lay scattered upon the ground, their armor still warm, their wounds fresh. They were Sashay's comrades.
Amid the newly fallen bodies, a man stepped forward.
He was tall and heavily built, his body covered in solid armor that gleamed faintly beneath the daylight. A short cloak hung from his back, draped over his right shoulder. In his hands he carried a massive two-handed sword, its long blade unmistakable.
A zweihander.
Sashay narrowed his eyes slightly as he faced the newcomer, adjusting his footing and lowering his center of gravity.
"This time, I will be the one who kills you." Sashay said calmly, readying his stance.
The armored man gave no reply.
He simply looked at Sashay.
Then, in the next instant, he vanished.
Sashay's eyes widened.
A blur moved through the air, too fast to properly follow. Before Sashay could fully understand what had happened, the man suddenly appeared directly in front of him.
Sashay tried to adjust, his mind racing to catch up with what his eyes had just witnessed.
But it was already too late.
A sharp pain exploded in his chest.
Slowly, almost mechanically, Sashay lowered his gaze.
There it was.
The long blade of the zweihander had pierced straight through his abdomen, the steel entering from the front and emerging from his back. In the briefest moment, the man had delivered a fatal strike.
Srutt!
The armored warrior pulled the sword free in one swift motion.
Blood burst forth from the wound, flowing both from Sashay's stomach and his back. His strength vanished almost instantly. His legs gave way beneath him, and he collapsed onto the ground.
All he could feel now was the burning pain of the wound… and the creeping darkness that slowly began to wrap itself around his fading consciousness.
What the hell…
Why is this bastard so strong?
What does he eat every day… powdered swords?
The absurd thought flickered through his mind before his awareness finally slipped away.
Darkness swallowed everything.
For a brief moment, there was nothing.
Then, faintly, a light appeared.
Sashay's eyes opened.
The first thing he heard was a voice. A voice that sounded strangely familiar.
"Hey! You there! Move to the front. Don't hide behind us like a coward!" the squad leader shouted.
"Yes, sir!"
Sashay slowly lifted his gaze.
A small sigh escaped him.
Well then…Time to meet Phil… and that bastard again.
***
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