Corpses. Blood. Fire.
Not this dream again.
I have to think fast.
The sky seemed suffocated by smoke. Clouds rolled and piled upon each other, the light within them smoldering like iron just pulled from a forge, dull and heavy. The ground before me was a swamp of blood and corpses. Bodies lay half-submerged in the mud, limbs twisted into cruel shapes, faces turned to the sky as if silently pleading, eyes wide and dull.
The air was thick with heat, heavy as the breath sucked out of a furnace. Each breath carried the taste of metal and dust. A foul stench washed over me like a tidal wave–burnt hair, burnt flesh–enveloping the entire land, to the point that no creature, living or dead, could escape it.
I bent down to look.
It was still the familiar armor, but different. Scratched, covered in ash, stained with something bright red. I reeked of death.
The once cold, gray-blue steel armor was now covered in dark, uneven patches of dried blood. The dried blood clung in dark patches to the joints of the armor, especially on the chest and shoulders, where direct blows from swords that had slashed through the unfortunate victims had been taken. Some stains were still wet, slowly trickling down the metal grooves before dripping onto the ground. The steel no longer had its original dull sheen; instead, it was a dull, sticky surface, coated with a mixture of blood and mud.
The dark blue cloak on my back was tattered, the hem stained with blood, the fabric mottled red and black. When the wind blew, a mixed smell of dried blood, old sweat, and damp metal assaulted my nostrils. It wasn't an immediately disgusting smell, but like the iron tang of dried blood over the sour reek of old sweat, but beneath it all lurked a cloying, sweet note of decay–like meat left in the sun.
The steel gloves were where the blood was most visible, the worst.
The knuckles were stained with dried blood, forming a sticky, black layer. They're permanently stained a deep, dark red, and the blood has made the leather stiff. It’s cracked in the joints where I’ve clenched my fist, showing the lighter leather underneath.
It seemed that “I” in this world hadn't taken care of myself for years.
In my right hand: a sword.
The blade was chipped. Along the edge of the blade were small, jagged, uneven chips, like teeth marks left after biting into bone, armor, or something that shouldn't have been cut. Stable.
My left hand…
Where is my left hand?
My left arm was gone.
And it wasn't just pain. It was blood.
It didn't seep. It gushed.
Thick, hot, and dark, almost black in the dying light. It spurted from the shattered piece of hand in chaotic, irregular bursts, in sync with my panicked heartbeat. Each beat was a scream echoing in my chest, each beat a betrayal.
I felt it flowing down my body, soaking into the tattered leather of my armor. The blood wasn't smooth; in places it had clotted, sticky and warm, but the edges were already starting to cool. It pooled at my feet, mixed with mud, with ash, with the half-dried blood of another.
The wound was hideous, ripped open, not neat at all. This wasn't a slash. This was a force. Something had ripped it apart, an explosion, an impact, a bite? I don't know. I only know the flesh around the shoulder was ripped back.
I pressed my right hand against the remaining piece of the arm.
Bad idea.
The moment I touched it, the pain flared up again, fresh, wild, sharp as shattered glass embedded under the skin. I pressed down again. Harder. I felt the pounding under my fingertips, the heat, the slipperiness, the panic.
Too much blood. Too much. It was leaving me, taking time with it. Seconds. Minute. Life.
I began to tremble, even though the whole world was burning. My vision blurred at the edges. The roar in my ears wasn't fire, but the sound of my body dying.
I was bleeding to death. Quickly.
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.
That sound.
Initially faint, but it intensified rapidly.
An arrow. Tearing through the wind.
Then…
A voice ripped through the chaos:
“Held!”
It was me. Or… “me” in this dream.
I looked up.
His armor was identical to mine, but sterile, spotless, memoryless. It didn't yet carry his story. His body was a picture of panic: cheekbones sharp as knives beneath taut skin. Eyes wide as plates, pupils devouring eyeballs. Breath cut in and out of his chest, shallow and rapid, like the heartbeat of a rabbit amplified into sound. He trembled, a small tremor indicating an overloaded, overwhelmed nervous system.
He was new. His armor, his physiological reactions, his posture–both stiff and signaling impending collapse. This wasn't just fear. This was a primal, disintegrating fear, the kind that transforms a soldier into a danger to himself and everyone around him.
His face contorted, fleetingly shifting from bewilderment and panic to a physically weighty plea.
“Please…”
“…protect me. I don’t want to die!”
Thump!
A crisp, sharp sound. Sudden. The end.
Blood splattered onto my cheek, still warm. The man froze. His mouth agape. An arrow pierced his eye, its shaft grotesquely protruding from the socket. The arrowhead, fresh and piercing the eyeball, dangled the optic nerve like a severed wire. Blood and thick mucus dripped down the shaft in horrifyingly slow drops. He fell, his armor clanging as it landed in the mud at my feet.
Arrow came.
More was coming.
There was no time for mourning.
I grabbed his corpse, using it as a shield.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
Arrows pierced the body, cold, emotionless.
I pulled one out, a standard bodkin arrow, about 20 grams. It had an enchantment, seemingly increasing its firing power. Mana cost… tripled. The wound was 3 cm deep. This was the Middle Ages; the shooter assumed good physical strength… 155 J, plus the enchantment… 465 J. The initial velocity of a 20-gram arrow at that level was 215.6 meters per second. Considering the velocity reduction, no wind, penetrating steel armor, leaving a 3 cm deep wound… at least 300 meters. At least 300 meters, three football fields. Could I do it? I don't know.
No. I had to.
I threw my sword onto my back, raising the corpse like a wall, and charged toward the source of the arrows.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
The arrows continued to fly. 250 meters.
Swish! Swish! Swish!
They pierced through. I had to be faster. 198 meters.
Clang! Clang!
They started to bounce off the armor. Just enough. 100 meters.
Crack! Thump!
A searing pain erupted in my right hand. An arrow not only pierced the corpse I was holding, but also lodged itself in my hand behind the corpse.
I screamed in my head. My hand almost let go. The pain was terrible.
I wanted to die.
No. Not yet.
Only 7 meters left.
I bit the shaft of the arrow and yanked hard. Blood flooded my mouth, metallic, salty. But warm. Even pleasant.
Panic screams rang out:
“What is this madman? It won’t stop!”
“I didn’t come to the battlefield to encounter this thing.”
“Shoot again! He’s just a human!”
They were there. Two archers.
I threw my all, hurling the corpse at one of them. He staggered.
At the same moment, I drew my sword and pierced both of them. He screamed, the sound rising like smoke.
“AAAAGH!”
The first archer fell, impaled.
But my sword got stuck. Too deep. I couldn’t pull it out.
The second drew his bow, aiming.
Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.
“You bastard!”
The arrow left the bowstring in a sharp snap, cutting cleanly through the air.
Finally…
Dead.
…
No.
I want to die as my whole being.
This body, Held, belongs to Held, not me; it will not bear her responsibility.
My neck jerked violently to the left, without any flexibility. Muscles contracted with a sharp, decisive force, tendons screaming a single command: Move. Now.
My shoulders immediately followed, lowering instinctively, pulling my entire body along with them. My spine twisted just enough to break the straight axis. I felt my balance shatter and then re-establish itself in the midst of the movement. My knees softened, not buckling, but yielded slightly, lowering my center of gravity by a few inches that suddenly became more important than any thought.
The arrow whizzed past my face. I saw it. I felt it. It grazed my skin so closely that it left a hallucinatory mark on my cheek. My body reacted again, a jolt compounded by movement, my skin tensed, my breath caught in my throat.
No, I had to think fast.
I lunged forward. He was reloading his arrow, two seconds.
No more weapons.
What did I have left? Teeth.
Before he could put the arrow on the bowstring, I grabbed him. I yanked his head back.
“NGHH!”
He didn’t have time to finish. I bit into his throat, tearing through his trachea.
Blood gushed out. Salty. A lot of it.
He fell to the ground, clutching his neck, gasping desperately.
He would die soon.
I turned back.
The archer was still alive. Just barely.
He was impaled by my sword, blood boiling in his stomach. His mouth twitched as if trying to say something that would never come out.
And then finally…
A gasp.
A word.
“P–please…”
His voice was as thin as the shattered glass at my feet.
“Don’t kill me… I, I didn’t mean to. I was just following orders…”
Of course. Orders. Instructions. Rules. Always the will of another. Never his own.
His hand trembled as he reached out to me. No weapons. Just two open hands, slippery with blood and despair.
“I have a family. A son. I didn’t choose this. You understand, right? Please…”
I stared.
He thought I made the decision.
He thought mercy or death was in my hands.
Fool.
I am not justice. Not a god. Perhaps not even human anymore. Not here. Not in this place. What I am…
Is will.
Not mine.
Something older. Colder. Emotionless.
The will that controls me doesn’t crave. It exists.
Will is not hungry for power. It is the motive. It is power itself.
No reason. No question. Just action.
I tightened my grip on the hilt. His eyes widened.
“No, no, please! You don’t have to…”
I don’t have to.
I still do it.
I turn the blade.
Slowly.
His scream was sharp, sudden, then…
It died out.
The light in his eyes flickered like a crushed candle.
Silence. Again.
Warm blood covered my hand.
I didn't pray. There was no sadness in me. This wasn't revenge. Not justice. Not even survival.
The line had been breached.
I stood alone amidst the corpses and fire, their blood soaking into the earth, into the armor, into me.
The archers were dead.
Their outpost was shattered.
Their screams still echoed somewhere in my skull.
Far behind, I heard a rumble.
Steel boots trampled the mud, thousands of men.
My troops.
We had waited for this. Waited for me. To tear a hole in their wall.
Now they could pour through.
I climbed the slope just behind the bodies of the archers.
The wind lashed at me, thick with smoke and ash, and I raised my usable arm, signaling.
A single red flare ripped across the sky.
Seconds later:
The war horn sounded.
A deafening roar behind me as our troops poured into the breach, swords drawn, flags tattered, eyes bloodthirsty.
A tidal wave of steel and fury.
I knelt on one knee.
Not from pain. Not yet.
But from exhaustion. From silence.
From knowing I had done what I was made to do, no, programmed to do.
Below, the enemy camp exploded in chaos.
People ran in all directions, some still undressed, others shouting orders that went unheard.
My soldiers swarmed them like wolves into a sheepfold.
“Held! Held!!”
They called my name as they ran past.
Some were terrified.
Some were worshipful.
Someone was chanting the name of a god.
I didn't answer.
There was nothing left to say.
Not in this dream.
I watched a soldier drag a screaming man out of a tent and stab him repeatedly until he stopped convulsing.
Another man set fire to a car just because he could.
This wasn't war anymore.
It was a massacre.
A storm I had unleashed.
And somehow, I was the eye of the storm.
The fire was dying down.
The remnants of the enemy were either fleeing or burning.
I stood still.
The blood of dozens of men clotted on my armor, drying into thick, rusty red layers.
To my left, I felt… empty. Not just from blood loss. But from the absence.
That's when I heard her voice.
Light, sharp, cutting through the rubble like a silver blade:
“So… you really were alive in there, Held.”
I turned.
A woman approached, her cloak untouched by mud or ash.
The white fabric flowed like mist, embroidered with glowing symbols that hummed as she moved.
She wore no armor, only faith.
Her presence was both warm and sharp, like the memory of a friend I'd never met again.
The sorceress. I knew her. I'd seen her in other dreams, always observing from afar, hands clasped as if praying for something. But now she was here.
Really. Close.
“You broke through their defenses. Without you… They would have massacred us.”
“You saved them.”
She reached out her hand towards me, but her fingers froze in mid-air.
Her smile faded.
She saw it.
Where my left arm should have been.
“God…”
Her breath caught in my throat. Something cracked on her face. Pity? No. Grief.
“You shouldn’t have lived this long in this state.”
She closed her eyes. Muttering words I didn’t understand. Her hand began to glow, initially a soft white, then a brilliant yellow.
I recognized the symbol.
Rebirth.
A high-level spell. Forbidden in some places.
But this wasn’t healing.
This was rewinding time, forcing the flesh to remember what it once was.
And feeling each second it returned.
Repeating.
Her hand hovered a few inches from the wound.
The cryptic syllables slipped from her lips, glowing like molten gold in the air.
The pain came.
Unlike before.
Not like an arrow. Not like fire.
Worse.
Every nerve, every cell, every atom screamed.
My knees almost buckled, but I stood firm.
Muscles twisted. Bones groaned. Flesh intertwined violently, as if clawing at the path back to existence.
And in my head…
Pain, red, fear, why, death.
Pain, red, fear, why, death.
Pain, red, fear, why, death.
Pain, red, fear, why, death.
Pain, red, fear, why, death.
Pain, red, fear, why, death.
Pain, red, fear, why, death.
Pain, red, fear, why, death.
Pain, red, fear, why, death.
Pain, red, fear, why, death.
It repeated endlessly.
But I didn't scream. I didn't flinch. My face was like stone.
The sorceress looked at me. Her lips still moved, her voice steady, but her eyes trembled. She knew how much pain I was in.
She knew it was a miracle I was still standing.
But she didn't stop. Neither did I.
The pain escalated, like knives cutting through fiery nerves. My back arched, my jaw clenched so tightly it felt like it would crack.
But still…
No sound. No tears. Only breathing. In. Out. Control. Buried deep.
The voice inside continued to scream.
Pain, red, fear, why, death.
Pain, red, fear, why, death.
Pain, red, fear, why, death.
Pain, red, fear, why, death.
Pain, red, fear, why, death.
Then…
Done.
The magic faded.
The light dimmed.
And my arm… intact.
The flesh recovered. The skin was clean, scar-free.
Alive.
Her voice rang out, cutting through the storm:
“Let’s go.”
Her eye never left mine.
“We must fight for 天明, ??? 天明 тедуб だ yge ?? ? ???–”
Suddenly, everything went dark.
…
I was back in bed, the alarm clock ringing. I was back in my world, in my body, in Haruto Fujikawa, an ordinary, insignificant 17-year-old boy. Damn, I don't understand what she's saying; it seems like a new word.
Ow. The pain is still there. Obviously.
Sigh. The cuts on my left wrist have healed. Maybe I'll try something else. But first, I should wash my long-sleeved shirt; it's stained with blood. Dad won't be happy to see the shirt he bought dirty.
