Fels stared down at the infant lying amidst the battlefield's carnage, its tiny frame smeared with dirt and mud.
"A baby?" she murmured, her voice edged with surprise.
It wasn't just the child's presence in this forsaken place that astonished her—it was how it had evaded her dagger moments earlier. Her sharp gaze swept over the infant, assessing. Thin, frail limbs. A sunken belly. A shredded umbilical cord, still attached with bits of tissue dangling from it.
'This child is a newborn,' she mused, her neutral expression unchanging. 'But the umbilical cord… severed by force?'
Her eyes shifted to the battlefield's grim scenery. Corpses lay strewn like discarded ragdolls, the silence oppressive. Among the lifeless forms, her gaze settled on one in particular.
She squinted, making out the distinct features of a woman with a torn abdomen. Beside her, a long, sinewy cord—ripped and stained.
'Ah, so this was the mother. How tragic, to be born amidst such slaughter.'
Fels's lips pressed into a thin line as she glanced back at the infant.
.
.
.
The woman in black leather armor loomed over me, her dagger still gripped firmly in her hand. Despite her measured stance, I felt the weight of her intent pressing down on me.
'I almost died,' I thought, my mind racing as if it had never stopped since my past life. A strange, thrilling sensation prickled through my barely-formed body, like electricity shooting up my spine.
It wasn't fear. No, it was something far more exhilarating. It reminded me of my past life—ducking bullets, feeling knives tear into my flesh, and watching my pursuers' faces twist in desperation as they failed to kill me.
This moment had that same intoxicating flavor.
'Though it's a bit ironic,' I mused. 'Being on the other end of the blade for once.'
Her narrowed eyes flicked toward me, and I fought the instinct to move too much. I kept my breathing shallow, my movements subtle, determined not to betray the self-awareness coursing through my infant body.
"This is… problematic," she muttered, pacing back and forth. Her fingers tapped the hilt of her dagger. "My orders are to kill any survivors. But killing a child… it's not something I enjoy."
She stopped and rubbed her chin, her conflicted expression plain to see. Yet, as she deliberated, I recognized the glint in her eye.
Dangerous.
Even a child like me—no, especially a child like me—could see it.
…..
Elsewhere on the battlefield, Mikel wandered amidst the bodies, his boots squelching in the wet mud. His thoughts drifted from their mission to the overwhelming number of corpses carpeting the ground.
Stopping beside a particularly battered soldier, his eyes narrowed. The man's lifeless hand clutched a sword with intricate golden gems embedded in the hilt. His black armor, accented with silver, bore the emblem of a radiant sun. A golden dragon-shaped necklace dangled from his neck, glinting even in death.
"A High Marshal," Mikel murmured, his tone heavy with respect.
His gaze moved to the wounds adorning the corpse: a deep gash in the spine, a stab to the abdomen, and a precision cut to the throat—deliberate, methodical.
"Whoever killed this Marshal knew exactly what they were doing," he muttered. He crouched down, running a finger along the hilt of the sword. "But even then… for a High Marshal to lose? They had the magic advantage. This sword alone…"
A thought struck him, his eyes narrowing further.
"Anti-magic?" he speculated, his voice tinged with concern. "If that's the case, then things could get messy. Still…" He allowed a small smile. "More intel means more pay."
But as his eyes lingered on the Marshal's hollow gaze, his smile faded. He sighed, clicking his tongue in frustration.
"Rest in peace, you righteous bastards."
...
Fels's pacing finally came to a halt. She let out a heavy sigh, her dagger rising slowly in her hand. Her face remained impassive as she stared down at the infant.
"I'm sorry," she said softly, though there was no warmth in her tone. "Orders are orders, and I don't have the luxury to spare lives. Especially not here."
Her grip on the dagger tightened as she prepared to strike.
.
.
.
She was lying.
Her words said one thing, but her eyes… oh, her eyes spoke volumes.
That gleam, the subtle flicker of excitement hidden behind her neutral mask—I knew it well. I'd seen it countless times in the mirror, reflected back at me in my past life.
A killer's thrill.
My small heart pounded in my chest, my fragile lungs pushing air faster. Yet, it wasn't fear driving me—it was that exhilarating pull, that addictive rush of staring death in the face.
I could feel it, creeping up my face despite myself—a smile tugging at my infant lips.
My heart raced with anticipation.
'Go ahead, then. Let's see your next move.'