My name is John. Or at least, that's the name I go by now. I don't remember my real name. The earliest memory I have is of a battlefield—bloodied and strewn with rotting corpses, the stench so thick in the air it felt like you could choke on it. I can still smell it sometimes, even when I close my eyes.
I survived by scavenging what I could from the dead—armor, weapons, anything of value to keep me alive. I cleaned the blood-soaked swords and polished the battered shields for a meager coin, thinking that would be my life forever. Just another nameless face, another body waiting to rot in the dirt. But then, seven years ago, everything changed.
