The land wore mourning like a widow's veil—shrouded in a tapestry of ashen grays, heavy with sorrow and silence. The sky hung low, thick with smoke that still clung to the air like the breath of ghosts. A week had passed since the battle had ceased, yet the scent of fire and steel lingered, stubborn and acrid. The field was littered with corpses—warriors from both sides, their stories ended mid-sentence, their mouths frozen in silent screams.
It was quiet now. Unnaturally so. A stillness that pressed upon the earth like a held breath, eerie in its serenity. Peaceful, almost—if one could call a graveyard peaceful. Here, in this place soaked with blood and sorrow, chaos had come and gone, leaving only its aftermath behind.
Then the sky split.
A single thunderclap tore through the silence, raw and jagged, and with it came the rain, sharp, cold, and sudden, as if the heavens themselves had broken open to weep. The storm fell upon the dead without mercy, washing over armor and open wounds, smearing blood into mud.
And from the place where the lightning struck, the crimson mist began to rise.
It came slowly at first, coiling and creeping across the broken ground like something alive. It slithered over shattered blades and mangled limbs, whispering secrets only the dead could hear. Voices echoed within it—low, guttural, disembodied—speaking in tongues lost to time. No living soul remained to listen.
The red fog stopped at a fallen knight.
He lay on his back, his armor dark with grime, the sigil of his kingdom barely visible beneath the smear of blood and soot. The metal was bent, punctured in places, scraped and battered by blade and flame. His face, once youthful, now bore the stillness of death, eyes staring glassy into the gray sky above.
He had been young—too young. A boy who had traded his laughter for a sword, his dreams for duty. He had stood for his kingdom, proud and unflinching, and now he lay forgotten among the thousands, one more soul lost to war. The rain did not mourn him.
Then, without warning, the mist convulsed.
It coiled like a serpent ready to strike, rippling with unnatural intent. It slithered into the knight's corpse—through parted lips, beneath dented plates, into broken flesh and bone. The fog vanished into him, as if the body drank it in like a parched man at a spring. And once it was done—once the last wisp had disappeared beneath his breastplate—the field held its breath.
Moments passed. Then the change began.
The boy's skin, once pallid and drained of life, began to flush with color, as though the blood had remembered its path. But the wounds remained—gashes reopened, old scars wept anew. Crimson pooled beneath him, warm and fresh. His hair, once the golden like a sunray in autumn, faded like ash in a dying hearth, turning bone white strand by strand.
And then, with a sound like the world drawing breath, his eyes flew open.
Gone were the gentle browns of youth. In their place: red. Not the bright red of fire or fury, but something darker, streaked through the iris like fractured glass—blood and shadow tangled together in a gaze that no longer belonged to a boy.
He gasped.
Loud and desperate, as if dragged from drowning, he choked on the air. His breaths came in heaving bursts, his chest rising and falling like a bellows worked by unseen hands. Slowly, shakily, he turned to his side, bracing himself with trembling arms slick with blood and rain. He rose—awkward, limping, as though the earth itself resisted his return.
And then, broken and hoarse, came his first words.
"Where... am I?"
The battlefield did not answer. Only the rain.
Though his body trembled like a leaf caught in a storm, he forced himself upright. His left limb throbbed with a dull, relentless ache, wrapped in a shroud of pain that no warmth could touch. Clutching it tightly, he scanned the gray wasteland around him, eyes wide but haunted. Suddenly, something clawed at the edges of his mind—shrieks and cries, a cacophony of voices torn from a nightmare long buried.
"Ahh!—"
He grunted, the sound tearing from deep within.
Visions flooded his mind: shadowy figures locked in brutal combat, swords flashing like lightning, balls of fire exploding against the earth with thunderous roars. The echoes of war pressed down on him, heavy and unyielding. His legs wobbled beneath him, trembling with the weight of remembered terror. Desperation gripped his hands, and with a slow, deliberate motion, he seized a fistful of his ashen hair.
"What... what is all this..." His voice cracked, barely more than a whisper, unanswered by the empty air.
For a fleeting moment, the storm inside his mind stilled. The pounding headache receded, and a fragile calm settled in. He shook his head, trying to banish the visions, and looked again at the desolate field.
The place was strange—alien. No part of it felt familiar. His eyes lifted to the sky, where cold raindrops fell and kissed his face like icy tears. Then, with a sinking heart, he dared to glance downward—and instantly, regret flooded him.
"Ahhhhh!!—"
The scream tore from his throat, raw and ragged.
Before him lay a grotesque tapestry of death: twisted bodies of fallen knights piled like broken statues, shattered limbs jutting at cruel angles, and the lifeless form of a Tursos—a monstrous beast—impaled and still. The sight was unbearable, a crushing weight that buckled his knees. The world spun, and he collapsed, retching violently onto the blood-soaked earth.
Though his legs trembled like a fledgling bird's, he forced himself to his feet in an instant. Without hesitation, he broke into a desperate run—fast and reckless—though he had no idea where he was headed. The rain hammered down in relentless sheets, soaking his battered armor, each piece clanking sharply with every pounding step. It was the only sound that dared to challenge the storm's fury.
But fate was cruel.
His foot caught on something hidden beneath the mud and debris, and with a brutal jolt, he tumbled forward, crashing hard onto the slick earth. Gasping, he struggled to rise, his hands slipping against the wet ground. As he pushed himself upright, his eyes caught something that rooted him to the spot.
A head.
It lay half-buried in the muck, rolling slowly with the remnants of his fall. But it was no ordinary head.
The cruel, jagged tusks marked it unmistakably—an orc's. One tusk was snapped clean off, shattered like broken bone. Its skin, once a fierce shade of red, was smeared with mud and darkened by dried blood. The lifeless eyes stared back at him—empty yet accusing, frozen in a grim stare that seemed to pierce his very soul.
Though it had long since ceased to breathe, something deep inside him screamed—raw, guttural, and pure terror.
The storm swallowed his cries.
with that he ran again, and again, and again, until he reached the edge of the battle field, the forest, woods shrouded the place with darkness, yet he didnt waver and entered, he thought that, Whatever lay ahead could not be worse than what he had just left behind—or so he hoped.
The forest closed in around him like a half-remembered nightmare—dark, damp, and breathing with a life of its own. The trees loomed tall and gnarled, their twisted limbs clawing at the sky. The air was thick, every breath tasting of rot and rain. Still, he pushed forward, too afraid to look back.
"What... what is this place?" he muttered between ragged breaths, his voice little more than a whisper swallowed by the woods.
"I thought I died..."
He said it as if saying it aloud might make sense of it. But nothing made sense. Not the battle. Not the rain. Not the body that had once lain still and cold, now walking, bleeding, breathing.
"I was still in the car... when it exploded. I'm sure I died."
The memory flashed behind his eyes—metal twisting, heat blooming, fire erupting like a sun in his chest. And then—nothing. Darkness. Silence. Until now.
His legs buckled beneath the weight of it all, and he collapsed against a tree, its bark slick and cold against his back. He slid down, breath catching in his throat.
"Is this hell?" he asked the void.
But the forest gave no answer. Only the patter of rain and the distant groan of wind through the trees.
The world around him was alien, as if carved from someone else's dream. Colors seemed muted, shadows too deep. The sky above was barely visible through the thick canopy, but pale slivers of moonlight slipped through now and then, like the eye of some ancient god peering down in indifference.
Still, he rose again.
He had no strength left, yet something deeper drove him—a primal, animal urge to survive. His legs trembled beneath him, each step an effort, each breath a rasp. Behind him lay blood and ruin. Ahead... he didn't know. But he kept going.
The forest stretched on, oppressive and silent, its every shadow watching. Moonlight shimmered through the branches, casting ghostly patterns on the forest floor, and every rustle felt like breath on his neck.
I thought... hell would be fire. A sea of flames. A furnace... not this...
His vision blurred. The world swam, and for a moment, he wasn't sure if he was still moving or simply being pulled forward by the forest itself.
"Haa... haa..." His breaths came shallow and sharp.
Then—something.
A sound, faint and fragile, rode the wind. A murmur—voices, maybe, drifting like smoke between the trees. He froze. The whisper of life, of something other than pain and silence, cut through his haze.
His crimson eyes widened. He listened.
Again, the murmur—closer now.
And then, a light.
Flickering ahead through the gloom, warm and golden, soft like the glow of hearth-fire seen from far away. It shimmered through the undergrowth, beckoning, alive.
He took a step.
Then another.
Toward the light.
Hope sparked within him—a fragile flame flickering against the storm of his despair. It was small, trembling, but real. And it was enough.
Though every fiber of his being screamed for rest, for surrender, he pressed on. Roots snagged his boots, stones bit into his soles, and the forest floor seemed to lurch with every step. Still, he moved. One breathless stride after another, dragging his battered body toward that sliver of warmth in the dark.
The voices grew clearer—no longer mere whispers on the wind, but muffled words and quiet laughter, distant and indistinct, yet unmistakably human.
At last, the trees gave way.
He stood at the edge of a clearing, hidden in the curtain of mist. The light he'd chased now danced before him—golden and alive, crackling in a modest fire at the clearing's heart. Around it sat a group of armored figures, their weapons resting lazily by their sides. Their faces were cast in half-shadow, their features obscured by the flicker of flame and fog, but their presence was grounding—a stark, warm contrast to the death-strewn silence he'd left behind.
Relief washed over him, swift and overwhelming. His legs, robbed of their last ounce of strength, gave out beneath him.
He collapsed to his knees, breath hitching, blood pounding in his ears. His mouth opened.
"Help..."
The word barely escaped his lips—a hoarse whisper, weak and ragged, vanishing into the night like smoke.
Then the world tilted.
Darkness swam in at the edges of his vision, thick and final. He hit the ground with a soft thud, the cold earth rising up to claim him once again.
Just before the black took him, he saw it—the fire's glow reflected in the eyes of the armored strangers, golden and glinting like the last embers of a dying sun.
And then, nothing.