In the face of an everdarkening sky, red was the hour of the day's last twilight. Smoke rose in choking plumes, veiling the dim horizon as a man strode beyond the shattered gates. Clad in armor that gleamed like a dying star, each step was carried out with a weight of determination—or simply exhaustion. His limbs ached and his breath came ragged. A silver greatsword hung heavy in his grasp, its edge dulled from seemingly countless battles, yet it felt lighter now, as if it, too, knew this would be its final swing.
And then he came upon it once again—the sight that would freeze even the hardiest warrior's battle-born heart.
Before him stretched an endless tide of spiteful shadow. Thousands stood arrayed in wait, their eyes glinting like shards of glass in the firelight. Twisted forms of men, beasts, and worse huddled together in a mass of unseen before grotesque shapes. Yet despite their eminating hatred, affront the man's sight they did not jeer, nor roar, nor call for his death. They only stared, as if daring him to take another step.
For a moment, the man hesitated.
His gaze turned over his shoulder, back toward the smoldering city. The walls were crumbling, the towers bent and broken under the weight of the siege. Smoke curled into the sky like the last breath of a dying thing.
He didn't look long, but in that fleeting moment, his gaze softened—almost imperceptibly—before an iron resolve returned to his eyes. The city, his city, was lost. He had made his choice. There was no turning back now.
With a fierce cry that echoed like a war drum, he threw himself forward, his greatsword held high. His footsteps rang surprisingly loud against the earth, each one a declaration of defiance.
He surged into the horde, a whirlwind of steel and light. The first of the enemies met him head-on, a hulking beast with long dark claws. The man's sword met the creature's chest with a resounding crack, sending the beast sprawling into the dust. The charge didn't slow, the momentum carrying him through the enemy ranks. His blade whirled in a deadly arc, cleaving through foe after foe, and the darkness that surrounded him.
With every swing, shadows shrank back. His movements were a blur of power and precision, but the tide of enemies surged forward without end. Each enemy that fell was replaced by another, more twisted and ferocious than the last. Yet still, the man pressed forward, undeterred, driven by neither fear or reason.
His breath grew faster now, his strength waning with every strike, but his resolve seemed unyielding, until..
..a sudden jolt of pain shot through his side.
His armor was cracked, the weight of battle wearing on him. He staggered but didn't fall. His sword remained steady in his grasp, though his steps faltered for a moment. He glanced to the side, his body trembling as he searched for something, some sign, another reason to keep fighting. But the battle had taken its toll, and there was only darkness closing in around him.
For a moment, the shadows seemed to part—just a fraction of an instant—as if the light itself had pushed back against the encroaching night. The man's chest rose and fell, his breath shallow. His face, obscured by his helm, betrayed no fear in the face of death. He did not call for reinforcements, nor did he beg for mercy. But he did stand alone.
Then, in that fleeting moment of stillness, the air around him seemed to shimmer. His body radiated a strange, glowing warmth, as though the very essence of the earth beneath him had responded to his will. And from deep within—a mysterious force—came divine looking light. It surged up from his chest, blinding and pure, washing over him like a great tide of fire.
The light burst forth in an explosion of radiance, a brilliant wave of energy that tore through the enemy ranks. Shadows screamed, recoiling from the blinding force, their twisted forms dissolving into nothingness as the light consumed them. The light grew brighter, more intense, and in that moment, the battlefield seemed to cease its violence, the very world holding its breath.
The man stood at the center of the light, his sword raised high, like a beacon in a storm. His eyes fierce, locked onto the heart of the darkness before him.
For a single, fleeting moment, it felt like the making of history, or a witness of legend.
And then, the light began to fade.
The dream was always the same.
A faint gasp echoed through the room as the young man shot upright in bed. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath shallow, as though the fight had been his own. Sweat dripped down his brow, and his hands trembled as they gripped the edges of the bed. The remnants of the dream clung to him like shadows, slipping through his fingers just as he tried to recall them.
Another strange one.
He shook his head, blinking into the dim morning light. His room, small and humble, was silent save for the rhythmic sound of his own heartbeat. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake the unsettling feeling that lingered after the dream. It wasn't the first time—he had seen this same battle, this same man, again and again.
But he didn't know who the man was.
The face was always blurred, his features obscured by both shadows and strange lights. His armor—gleaming, almost otherworldly—was like a symbol of epic heroism carved out of a children's story book. The greatsword the man wielded seemed unnatural, like a weapon forged in the light itself. But none of it made sense.
Just a dream, he thought. Just my mind playing tricks on me.
He glanced at the window, where the early morning light painted the world in soft hues of gold. "It was only a dream".
But the feeling lingered. That firm weight in his chest, like a presence that had watched him fight.
"Just a dream", he repeated, though the words rang hollow in his ears.
He couldn't shake the feeling that somehow, in some way, it was real.