The rain had finally ceased, leaving behind a village shrouded in a somber stillness. Water dripped from the charred remnants of homes, mingling with the blood-soaked earth to create a sickening, muddy sludge. The sky was a muted gray, with faint rays of sunlight occasionally piercing through the layers of cloud.
A young man with short black hair, his clothes completely soaked, walked wearily through the ruins of what might have been a very peaceful village. His steps were slow and hesitant, as if each step forward threatened to drag him deeper into the nightmare from which there was no escape. The silence was deafening, broken only by the occasional creak of a collapsing structure or the distant caw of a crow feasting on the remains of the fallen.
As he picked his way carefully through the debris filled streets, the young man's mind raced. "This can't be real," he thought, his inner voice trembling. "I was just on my way to home this afternoon. How did I end up In this... this hell?"
His gaze fell upon a nearby corpse, the body of a soldier twisted at an unnatural angle. The soldier's eyes were wide open, staring sightlessly at the ashen sky. A ragged hole gaped in his chest where a spear had pierced through. The young man stumbled backward, bile surging in his throat.
"Ugh," he choked out, doubling over and retching. Nothing came up - his stomach was empty. How long had it been since he'd eaten? Since he had arrived in this nightmarish world? Time seemed to have lost all meaning.
Wiping his mouth with a shaking hand, he forced himself to keep moving. Each step squelched in the muddy ground, a nauseating mix of earth, rainwater, and blood. He tried to avoid looking too closely at the bodies scattered around, but it was impossible to ignore them completely. Villagers and soldiers alike lay where they had fallen, their lifeless eyes a mute testament to the brutality that had unfolded here.
'Just a moment ago, I was happily going home after leaving college and those boring classes behind and then suddenly, I was here, thrown in this world, caught in a brutal battle with no warning.' he thought, dejected.
"Why?" he whispered, his voice hoarse. "Why am I here? What kind of sick game is this?"
No answer came, save for the mocking caw of a distant crow. The young man wrapped his arms around himself, shivering despite the humid air. His clothes, still damp from the rain, clung uncomfortably to his skin.
With each step, the memory of his own brutal death replayed in his mind - the searing pain of the sword, the moment of utter darkness, and then... Something happened. His head reattached itself from his body perfectly. He shuddered violently. "It wasn't a dream," he muttered, running a hand along his unmarred throat. "I died. I actually died. But here I am, walking and breathing. How did I even survive that soldier's attack? I remember him slicing my head. Did I gain some kind of power?" A hysterical laugh rose from his chest, quickly morphing into a strangled sob.
Lost in his tumultuous thoughts, the young man failed to notice a partially obscured body lying in his path. His foot caught on something soft yet unyielding, and he pitched forward with a startled cry. He landed hard, face-first in the mud. For a moment, he lay there, the cool earth pressed against his cheek, almost welcoming in its solidity. Then, slowly, he pushed himself up, spitting out grit and wiping futilely at his mud-caked face.
"What did I...?" he began, turning to see what had tripped him. The words died in his throat as his eyes fell upon the small, headless corpse.
Time seemed to stand still as his mind struggled to comprehend what he was seeing. The body was so tiny, clad in a once-cheerful dress now stained dark with blood and muck. Where the head should have been was only a ragged stump, flesh torn and bone gleaming sickeningly white in the dim light.
"No," he whispered, scrambling backward. "No, no, no!" His back hit a fallen beam, and he huddled against it, unable to tear his gaze from the child's remains. Tears streamed down his face, cutting trails through the mud. "She was just a little girl," he sobbed, his entire body shaking. "What kind of monsters would do this? What kind of threat did she pose to those soldiers that they had to kill her so brutally?"
The horror of it all crashed over him like a tidal wave. This wasn't just some twisted fantasy or nightmare. This was real. The pain, the death, the utter disregard for life—all of it was terrifyingly, sickeningly real. And he was trapped here, in this place where even children weren't spared from such brutality.
For several long minutes, the young man remained huddled against the beam, his mind reeling. The memories of his old life—his quiet apartment, the solitude of his daily routine, the familiar yet hollow comfort of isolation—flashed before his eyes. Was that life still out there, continuing without him? Did the world even notice his absence, or had it moved on as if he had never existed at all?
Gradually, his sobs subsided, replaced by a hollow emptiness. He felt drained, both physically and emotionally. But a small voice in the back of his mind urged him onward. He couldn't stay here, exposed and vulnerable. Who knew what other dangers might be lurking in the ruins of this village?
With trembling limbs, he forced himself to stand. His gaze fell once more on the child's body, and he swallowed hard. "I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry that I am unable to do anything for you. You didn't deserve any of this." Unable to do anything more for the fallen, he turned away, his heart heavy with grief.
As he continued his aimless wandering through the village, the young man's eyes were drawn to a glint of metal half-buried in the mud. Approaching cautiously, he saw it was a sword, its blade stained with dried blood. The weapon lay near the body of a fallen soldier, likely dropped during the soldier's final moments.
For a long moment, the young man stared at the sword, conflicting emotions warring within him. On one hand, the very sight of it filled him with terror. He could still feel the phantom pain of a blade slicing through his own flesh. But a more practical part of his mind whispered that he needed some way to defend himself. Who knew what other threats might be waiting in this war-torn world?
With a shaking hand, he reached out and grasped the sword's hilt. It felt alien in his grip, far heavier than he'd expected. He lifted it, angling the flat of the blade to catch what little light filtered through the clouds. His own reflection stared back at him, a mud-streaked face with wide, haunted eyes.
"What am I doing?" he murmured, studying his distorted image. "I don't even know the first thing about using a sword. I'm not a warrior or a soldier. Heck, I have never even played a single sport in my 20 years of life."
But who was he now, really? The person he had been - an ordinary college student with ordinary worries and dreams - seemed to belong to another lifetime. In the span of what felt like mere hours, he had been thrust into a world of violence and terror, had died, and suddenly been reborn. Could he ever go back to that carefree lifestyle again?
He tightened his grip on the sword, its weight an anchor to this new reality. "I have to survive," he told himself firmly. "I have to figure out why I'm here, and how to survive in this god forsaken place. And if that means learning to use this..." He trailed off, unable to complete the thought. The idea of actually using the weapon made his stomach churn.
Shaking his head to clear it, the young man forced himself to focus on his immediate surroundings. The village was eerily quiet, but that didn't mean it was empty. There could still be enemy soldiers lurking about, or desperate survivors who might see him as a threat. He needed to be cautious.
With the sword held awkwardly before him, he began to explore more thoroughly, keeping a wary eye out for any sign of movement. Most of the buildings were in ruins, their contents strewn about or destroyed. Here and there, he caught glimpses of what life must have been like before the attack - a child's toy poking out from beneath the rubble of a house, the remains of a family's half-eaten meal now crawling with insects.
Each new sight deepened his sense of dread. These weren't just faceless casualties; they were individuals who had lived their lives and had their futures cut short in a single night of violence. And for what? What could possibly justify this level of indiscriminate slaughter?
As he pondered these grim thoughts, a movement caught his eye. He whirled, sword raised clumsily, only to see a crow take flight from a nearby window. The sudden fright sent his heart racing, and he leaned against a partially standing wall, trying to calm his ragged breathing.
"Get it together, you idiot" he muttered to himself. "You can't jump at every shadow."
Once his nerves had settled somewhat, the young man decided to investigate the house from which the crow had emerged. Perhaps he could find something useful inside - food, water, or maybe some less conspicuous clothing. Anything to help him survive in this hostile new world.
Cautiously, he approached the door, which hung crookedly on its hinges. Taking a deep breath, he pushed it open, wincing at the loud creak it made. The interior was dark, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. What he saw made his heart sink.
The room had been thoroughly ransacked. Furniture lay overturned and smashed, and personal belongings were scattered across the floor. Dark stains marred the walls and floorboards - blood, he realized with a shudder. Whatever violence had swept through the village hadn't spared this household.
Fighting down his growing unease, the young man pressed onward. He had to stay focused, had to find something - anything - that might help him. In what appeared to be a bedroom, he discovered a chest that had been partially emptied, its contents scattered around. Among the mess, he spotted some clothing that seemed relatively intact.
Relieved to find something useful, he quickly changed out of his mud-soaked and torn clothes. The new clothes were a bit large on him, clearly meant for someone of a sturdier build, but they were dry and free of any bloodstains. As he pulled on the rough-spun shirt, his stomach let out a loud growl, reminding him that he hadn't eaten anything since arriving in this unknown world.
"There has to be some food around here somewhere," he muttered, heading towards what he hoped was the kitchen area. But as he rounded the corner, he came face to face with a sight that stopped him dead in his tracks.
A woman's body lay sprawled on the floor, her lifeless eyes wide with terror. A massive wound gaped in her abdomen, likely from a sword, spilling viscera onto the bloodsoaked floorboards. Flies buzzed all around the body. The scene was made even more horrific when he found out that some kind of small animals had been at the body; small ragged bites covered the exposed flesh.
The young man staggered backward, his eyes fixed on the horrifying scene. He bumped into a wall while struggling to keep his composure. The strong, foul odor from the corpse made his stomach churn. He gagged and retched, but only managed to bring up a bit of bitter stomach acid.
When the heaves finally subsided, he buried his face in his hands, his voice trembling as he whispered, "I can't do this. I'm not made for this. I just want to go back. Please, someone... anyone... help me." His shoulders shook as he fought back silent sobs. It was all too much—the death, the destruction, the senseless brutality. The weight of it threatened to crush him completely.
But no help came. No divine intervention whisked him away from this nightmare. He was alone, trapped in a world he didn't understand, surrounded by death and the ever-present threat of violence. And worst of all, he couldn't even escape through death itself. He was doomed to experience this horror again and again.
For a long time, he just sat there, lost in his anguish and fear. But gradually, almost imperceptibly, something began to change within him. A tiny spark of determination ignited, fueled by the despair threatening to consume him.
He lifted his head, his eyes fixed on the woman's lifeless body. His face twisted with fear and sadness, but then it suddenly changed "No," he said, his voice low but resolute . "No, I can't give up. Not yet."
With a lot of effort, he slowly pushed himself to his feet. His legs felt weak, his entire body felt drained, but he forced himself to stand tall. He looked once more at the woman's body, forcing himself to confront the harsh reality of this world.
"I don't know why I'm here," he said, his gaze fixed on the fallen woman with burning resolve. "But I do know I won't let myself fail. I'll find a way to survive, no matter what it takes. And maybe, just maybe, I can prevent something like this from happening again."
With that solemn vow, he turned away from the grisly scene. He had no idea what challenges lay ahead, what horrors he might yet face. But he knew one thing for certain: he would face them. He would endure, he would learn, and he would find his purpose in this brutal new world.
Gripping his salvaged sword with newfound resolve, he stepped back out into the ruined village. The sky was beginning to clear, faint rays of sunlight piercing through the clouds, casting a fragile glow on the desolate landscape. It was a meager spark of hope in a world shrouded in darkness, but for now, it was enough to fuel his determination.