A lone figure stood at the edge of a grassy hill, unmoving.
Before him stretched an endless sea—still, grey, and without breath.
Behind him, the remnants of ancient stone lay scattered like forgotten prayers.
Pillars choked in ivy loomed silently around him, guardians of a place long devoured by time. Cracks ran across their once-proud forms like scars. The sky above was bleak and lifeless, painted in dull shades of overcast sorrow.
Wind howled through the ruins, making the grass ripple like waves of green flame. The figure remained still.
He was encased head to toe in weathered steel—jagged and crude in design, yet somehow… noble. A dusty, moth-eaten cloak fluttered behind him, half-torn at the edges. The armor beneath was a crooked blend of brutality and regality—like the corpse of a knight resurrected by war itself. Blackened plates of iron wrapped around his body, each one carrying the memory of battles fought and forgotten.
His helm was symmetrical and full-faced, giving nothing away. Slits allowed only the faintest glimpse of motion behind the mask.
The wind pressed harder.
Still, the figure stood. Silent. Unmoving.
Until he took a step forward.
He walked with slow, deliberate motion. Not hesitation—caution. Perhaps fear.
Perhaps curiosity.
He descended from the ruins onto the grassy slope, eyes hidden, hands heavy. He paused only once—glancing down at his gauntlets. Fingers flexed slightly.
"Who am I…?" His voice was low, ragged. "Where am I…?"
Those were his first words,two questions left unanswered for now.
So he kept walking.
No clank. No rattle. For an armored man, his footsteps were nearly silent.
The hill descended into a flattened valley, and as he reached the base, he stopped.
What lay ahead stunned even him—though his helm showed no expression.
Hundreds… perhaps thousands of weapons.
Scattered across the field like a metallic graveyard. Spears, lances, halberds, maces, warhammers, broken shields, shattered blades—some no longer than his forearm, others towering over him. All half-buried in the earth like rusted monuments to a war that had long since faded from memory.
He walked among them.
The blades were old, rotting, discolored by time.
But they didn't feel abandoned.
They felt… tired.
It was as if the weapons themselves held regret. Some yearning to be used once more. Others simply wishing they had never tasted blood.
Then he saw it.
A sword. Unlike the rest.
No rust. No decay. Its blade was dark, but not dulled. Long and narrow, its surface bore faint rune-markings that shimmered faintly—like a sleeping creature on the edge of waking.
He reached out. His armored hand closed around the grip.
The moment he touched it, it felt right.
A perfect fit. Not too heavy. Not too light.
He pulled it from the earth. It slid free without resistance.
"…Amazing," he murmured, voice low.
Without thought, he swung. The motion was smooth, natural, as if his body remembered something he didn't.
Strength and control. The balance was flawless.
"Lighter than it looks," he said, inspecting it again. "How am I supposed to carry this—?"
The blade vanished.
Gone in an instant. Dissolved into black, smoky shadows that curled up his wrist and vanished into the gauntlet.
He blinked behind his helm.
"...Wow."
He tried it again. The blade returned—glimmering, whole. With a flick of his fingers, it disappeared once more.
He did it again.
And again.
Like a child with a new toy.
After a while, he turned from the sea. The ruins, the hill, and the field of weapons faded behind him. He paused once—gazing at the ocean, as if waiting for something to stir.
But nothing did.
He turned away.
The land stretched ahead—an endless flatland of swaying grass and heavy clouds. Wind whispered across the plains like a warning. The figure kept walking. Quietly. Slowly.
He didn't know how long he walked. Minutes? Hours?
Eventually, the terrain shifted.
The flatland became a field of tall reeds and wild grass. The flora brushed against his armor like curious hands. He ran a gauntleted palm across the stalks, watching them bend.
Then—
A sound.
Low. Guttural. A roar.
He stopped.
"What… was that?"
He turned sharply, and the sword returned with a whisper of shadows.
Then the roar became a neigh—loud and monstrous.
A massive blur came crashing through the tall grass.
Something hit him. Hard.
The impact launched him backward. His body tumbled, steel scraping against earth. He crashed into the dirt, rolled, then pushed himself up with a grunt.
Before him stood a horse.
A beast built for war.
Its coat was dark brown, nearly black in the right lighting. It stood as tall as him at the shoulder. Corded muscle rippled beneath its hide like sculpted stone. Its mane was wild—long strands of pale yellow hair flowing like a banner in the wind.
It pawed the earth, snorting steam. Its eyes flared.
"Hold steady…" the figure muttered, sword raised. "Hold…"
The horse charged again.
"Hold!"
The knight rolled out of the way of the horse.The horse's charge missed the figure only by a few inches.
Immediately after the horse charged again.
"Fast!"
Quickly,the figure took his sword. He got in stance and just when the horse came close he lowered his stance and pushed the ground with his legs, propelling him forward.
He used his sword to slice the achilles tendon of the horse. A clean slice just deep enough to immobilize the horse.
"NEIGHHHKRR-EHHH!!!" The horse screamed in pain.
The horse stumbled about before falling on the ground. It was breathing heavily. The knight stood over the horse.
A sigh broke out beneath the helm.