A lone warrior, cloaked in dark, rain-soaked armor, stood at the forefront of a desolate battlefield. His blood-red cape, a vibrant slash against the gloom, whipped like a living flame in the biting wind. His posture, both commanding and grimly contemplative, was a stark silhouette against the misty background.
Behind him, where rows of his soldiers and cavalry stood ready, their banners, emblazoned with the White Wolf of his house, snapping defiantly.
Then, the enemy. Knights in red and white lamellar armor, their faces hidden behind horned helmets, advanced. Plates covered them from neck to shin, bound in dark cords, spears rising like a steel forest behind them—silent, armored shadows ready for war.
A tide of steel emerged. A group of horsemen crested a distant hill at dusk, their forms silhouetted against a bruised, red sky. Behind them, a heavy banner depicting a coiled red snake, the fierce emblem of the Kandor kingdom, whipped in the wind, and the glint of their armor spoke of high-ranking warriors, perhaps even nobility. Their army stretched across the horizon, a chilling testament.
Caelan raised his sword, the polished steel glinting even in the fading light. A thousand blades flashed in unison, a ripple of cold fire through his ranks.
A single cry shattered the hush – a primal roar, not of rage, but of a release so profound it verged on madness.
"Charge!"
With a thunderous tremor that shook the very earth, Caelan's mounted knights surged forward. It was a human avalanche, a wave of steel and muscle amidst swirling banners and the fierce war cries of his men. The air pulsed with the heat and fury of war, painted in burnt oranges, fierce reds, and glinting golds as the setting sun caught on armor and weapons. In the vanguard, a red plume on Caelan's helm marked him, a beacon of raw, dramatic energy leading the charge.
As they thundered down the hill, the air suddenly hissed. A dark cloud erupted from the enemy lines – a volley of arrows, sharp as screams, blotting out the last of the sky. One arrow detached itself, arcing in slow motion, a deadly whisper aimed directly at his charging cavalry. The ground, already churned by a thousand hooves, dissolved into a thick, grey dust, adding an urgent, suffocating tension to the scene.
Caelan's blade became a blur, a silver streak. He parried two incoming arrows, their shafts splintering against his sword with sharp cracks, the impact jarring his arm to the bone. Around him, his knights raised their shields, forming an impenetrable wall of iron and wood, the thud of deflected arrows and a drumbeat of doom.
Then, the world exploded.
The two forces met with the sickening crunch of metal on metal, the splintering of wood, and the guttural cries of men. It was a brutal, metallic shriek that tore through the air, drowning out all else.
Caelan, anticipating the disorienting impact, launched himself from his saddle just as his horse screamed, a spear taking it in the flank. He landed rolling, already rising, his sword a deadly extension of his will.
He moved through the chaos like a phantom, a living storm of steel. His blade flashed, cutting, parrying, weaving through the desperate tangle of bodies. Each swing was precise, efficient, a crimson path carved through the enemy ranks.
Blood splattered across his armor, across his cheek, warm and coppery. His chest heaved with every ragged breath, muscles screaming with effort, his ears ringing with the ceaseless din—the clang of steel, the shouts of men, the guttural gurgle of dying breaths.
Bodies piled around him, a gruesome testament to his fury, arrows still burning in the churned earth, the reek of death thick and cloying. How many had he killed? He didn't know. He didn't care. Only the next enemy mattered.
"Push forward!" Caelan roared, his voice raw but unwavering, cutting through the maelstrom. "The victory is ours!" His army, fueled by his command, surged onward, emboldened by their unyielding leader.
He charged, boots pounding the ground, his heart hammering louder than the clash of weapons. A Knight, eyes wide with feral aggression, raised his axe, too slow—Caelan's sword became a silver arc, slicing clean across the man's chest, a geyser of red blooming.
Another rushed him, a grunt on his lips, but Caelan ducked low, pivoting, driving his blade into the enemy's gut with a sickening squelch.
The fighting felt endless. Time ceased to exist. He didn't know how long it lasted—minutes? Hours? Each enemy was a moment, a challenge, another obstacle to survive.
Then... silence.
The last scream faded. The clang of swords died down, replaced only by the ragged breathing of survivors and the low moans of the wounded. The smoke, thick and acrid, slowly lifted, revealing the gruesome aftermath: a landscape littered with the fallen, painted in shades of red and grey.
They had won.
Caelan stood still, his sword limp in his hand, the hilt slick with sweat and blood, his body trembling with the aftershocks of battle. Blood ran from a deep cut on his arm, a dull throb he barely registered. Around him, his companions cheered, some collapsing in sheer exhaustion, others hugging each other, or weeping openly in relief. The air, though thick with the stench of death, now carried a faint, sweet scent of victory.
He knelt, his hands resting on the pommel of his sword, its blade embedded in the blood-soaked ground. The background blazed in fiery reds and oranges as the sun sank below the horizon, painting the sky with the destruction and loss of the day—the true, horrifying cost of the war.
He gazed at the surrounding devastation with an empty, hollow stare, his mind a void, stripped bare of all feeling. Yet, his expression, calm and composed amidst the carnage, belied the profound turmoil within, suggesting a terrifying, unbreakable internal resolve.
This is what he had to do. To survive. To protect what little he had l now in this brutal world.
He stood up, slowly, deliberately, the weight of the day settling on his shoulders.
Caelan just looked up at the sky.
Clear. Peaceful. So terribly different from the world beneath it.
His grip tightened around the hilt of his sword.
How did it come to this?
Years ago, he was standing in a pristine university hallway, wearing a crisp blazer and a polished smile. No blood. No swords. No survival.
"My name is Caelan Levine—son of a powerful man, born into a world of polished floors, glass towers, and endless expectations. A world where my biggest worry was the next family business meeting, or choosing the right tie."
But that life ended the moment I stepped into the academy parking lot.
I remember the sky turning black, not with storm clouds, but with an unnatural, consuming void. A sudden flash—like lightning, but far more intense, ripping through reality. Then, a black whirlpool erupted from the very ground where I stood, sucking everything inward. My chest seized. My body felt weightless, dissolving into an endless, terrifying fall.
And then—nothing.
When I opened my eyes again, I was lying on cold, damp earth. In a primeval forest, near a serene village on an island territory—a million light-years away from anything I knew.
The first day, I thought it was a dream. By the third, I knew it was a nightmare. And my new reality.
As I stepped outside that territory, seeking answers and a way home, I realized the brutal, savage truth of this world. There was no law, only strength. And as time went by, to survive… I killed people.
Not a monster. Not a beast. A man.
To live. To survive. Because no one would come to save me.
That's all this world seems to care about.
I don't know why I'm here. I don't know how I got here. But I've learned one thing: If I want to survive… I can't be the same boy I used to be.
I used to be the heir to an empire. Now, I'm just a man with blood on his hands, fighting to survive.
A man covered in blood, shaped by violence, and haunted by memories.
Caelan Levine is dead, he thought. This world killed him. And forged something else in his place.
A few years ago, I was riding in a luxury car, heading to a prestigious academy. Now, I'm riding a horse, charging opponents with a sword.
A few years ago, I was busy attending formal parties, navigating social graces. Now, I'm busy fighting in wars, navigating blades and desperate lunges.
A few years ago, I was holding a pen, writing papers Now, I'm holding a sword, because my life depends on it.
A few years ago, people respected and envied me for being the heir to a rich family, for my name. Now, people respect me because of my title and fear, for what I've done.
Years ago, I was worrying about grades and family business meetings. Now, I'm counting how many seconds it takes for someone to bleed out.
Years ago, I was pressured by the high expectations of others, the weight of my family's legacy. Now, I'm pressured by the lives of people who depend on me, the weight of their survival.
Even amidst the stench of death and the ringing in his ears, his former life remained startlingly vivid. He didn't just recall it; he saw it, crystal clear: the soft glow of his study lamp, the smooth leather of his father's armchair, the intricate patterns on his mother's porcelain tea set.
The boy he was, the heir to an empire, stood beside him in his mind's eye, a ghost of comfort and innocence that mocked the bloodied warrior he had become, every detail of that lost world perfectly intact.
No magic. No powers. No system messages. How unfair is that? I was thrown into this world without my permission or reason, yet I received no advantage, no guiding hand. I have no one to rely on.
Just me, a rusted blade, and a growing list of things I can't afford to feel: remorse, guilt, pity. All I need is my will to survive.
I can't recognize myself now. My past self is like someone I didn't know—a boy who had everything, a perfect life. I couldn't have conceived of the life I would have now, couldn't have imagined this hardened shell.
The boy I used to be feels so distant now, the life I used to have is like a dream, a life that isn't mine. Yet, I still remember clearly the life I used to have before I arrived in this brutal, savage world.