The world came into focus slowly, like a faded painting gradually regaining its colors. A boy's eyelids fluttered open, revealing the blurry shapes of leaves swaying in the wind above him, their movements hypnotic and strange. His mind felt like it was submerged underwater, sluggish and struggling against an unseen current. Memories slipped through his fingers like grains of sand, chaotic and disjointed—flashes of slipping on a banana peel, the screech of a scooty, and then darkness.
"Did I… die from that?" he thought, his voice echoing in the vast emptiness of his consciousness. It felt absurd. Death by banana peel and scooty? It seemed like a bad joke, the kind that would make his friends laugh for days. But the pain shooting through his body was no joke. A sharp, overwhelming pain coursed through his limbs, causing him to wince and gasp. He tried to stand, but his legs felt like lead, and his muscles refused to obey his commands.
"Focus," he told himself, forcing his breathing to steady, but the agony was relentless. He looked down, his breath catching in his throat. His clothes—tattered and blood-soaked—clung to his body like a morbid second skin. Panic surged through him as his eyes traced the gashes and bruises scattered across his torso, each wound screaming of violence and death. He was too shocked to scream, his voice locked in the pit of his stomach. He forced himself to calm down, pushing the terror away with sheer willpower.
A piercing scream cut through the air, shattering the momentary stillness. His head snapped towards the sound, his senses on high alert. In the distance, he saw a knight in polished armor, his figure striking against the dim, foggy background. The knight's stance was one of defiance, but it crumbled in an instant—a shadow in black clothing, an assassin, drove a dagger straight into the knight's chest. The metallic clang of armor and the wet, sickening sound of flesh being pierced were unmistakable. The knight crumpled, eyes wide with disbelief, before collapsing in a heap on the cold, unforgiving ground.
The boy staggered back, his mind struggling to process the surreal scene unfolding before him. His eyes darted around, taking in the battlefield. Twelve knights in armor clashed with a smaller group—four knights and three maids—locked in a desperate struggle against seven assassins. Steel clashed against steel, and the air was thick with the sound of battle cries, the grunts of pain, and the visceral reality of life and death.
"What the hell is going on?" he muttered, the words lost amidst the chaos. This had to be a dream—a vivid, nightmarish dream. Yet, the pain was all too real. He clutched his head as a wave of searing pain tore through his mind, threatening to split his skull in two. It was like a thousand needles stabbing into his brain, each one sharper than the last. He screamed, his voice raw and ragged, reverberating across the battlefield. The sound was so piercing, so filled with agony, that it momentarily halted the fighting.
The boy collapsed to his knees, clutching his head as blood trickled from his eyes, painting crimson trails down his cheeks. The world blurred and twisted, a kaleidoscope of pain and confusion. Around him, three maids and four knights formed a protective circle, their eyes wide with concern and fear as they watched the boy's torment. They held their ground, fending off the encroaching assassins with desperate fervor, unwilling to let their charge fall.
Minutes passed like hours, each second stretching into an eternity of torment. Finally, the pain subsided, leaving him gasping for air, his body trembling with the aftershocks. He took a moment to collect himself, his mind still reeling from the onslaught. Flashes of memories surged into his consciousness, not his own, but those of the body he now inhabited. Images of a grand castle, of sword training, of faces he did not recognize but felt strangely familiar. He realized he had reincarnated into another world, another life. The disorientation was staggering, but one memory stood out—an encounter with a powerful entity before his reincarnation.
In that memory, his soul form floated amidst a sea of stars, facing a figure shrouded in ethereal light. The entity's voice was deep, resonant, and carried the weight of countless lifetimes. It had asked him a simple question: "What do you desire?" In his spectral form, without hesitation, he had answered, "I want to experience using all weapons." The entity had pondered his request before producing a radiant, white orb. It floated toward him, its surface shimmering with endless possibilities. The orb merged with his soul, its light seeping into every fiber of his being. The entity's voice echoed in his mind as the orb fused with him: "This will grant your wish. It can take the form of any weapon you have ever seen or imagined, but it requires energy to wield."
The memory ended abruptly, like a film reel cutting off mid-frame. The boy blinked, his mind racing as he processed the revelation. He was no longer the person he once was; he was someone else, in a world of knights and assassins, of loyalty and betrayal. The realization hit him hard: his current body had been betrayed by twelve of his own knights. Anger and disbelief surged through him, but he forced himself to remain calm. Rage would not serve him here.
He closed his eyes, focusing on the entity's promise. Slowly, he extended his right hand, as if gripping an invisible gun. He concentrated, visualizing the weapon in his mind's eye—a sleek, black-and-red firearm, futuristic yet familiar. He felt a surge of energy, a tingling warmth spreading from his chest down to his fingertips. The air shimmered, and before his eyes, the gun materialized in his hand, solid and real. Its surface glowed faintly, a symbol of the entity's gift.
Opening his eyes, he took aim at the approaching enemies. His movements were fluid, instinctive, as if he had trained for this his entire life. He squeezed the trigger, and the gun roared to life. Each bullet exploded upon impact, sending shockwaves through the enemy ranks. The assassins faltered, their formation breaking as they scrambled to evade the deadly projectiles. His own knights and maids, sensing an opportunity, pressed the attack, cutting down their foes with renewed vigor.
The battle was fierce, but brief. The gun's explosive rounds turned the tide, allowing the boy's knights to dispatch the remaining assassins. When the dust settled, only two enemy knights were left alive, unconscious and bound. The boy lowered his weapon, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He glanced around, taking in the aftermath of the battle. Bodies littered the ground, both friend and foe, a grim testament to the violence that had unfolded.
His maids and knights approached him cautiously, their expressions a mixture of awe, respect, and a hint of fear. They had witnessed a miracle—a boy on the brink of death, wielding a weapon that should not exist, turning the tide against overwhelming odds. He could see the questions in their eyes, the uncertainty of what he had become. But for now, they remained silent, content to stand by his side as protectors and witnesses.
The boy clenched his fist, the gun dissolving into wisps of light before vanishing completely. He had much to learn about this world, about his new life, and the mysterious power he now possessed. But one thing was clear: he was not the helpless victim they had left to die. He was something far more dangerous, and those who had betrayed him would soon learn the price of their treachery.