The boy's chest heaved as he drew a shuddering breath, his vision wavering as the battle's aftermath settled around him. Blood soaked the ground, a testament to the brutality he had just witnessed and taken part in. His trembling fingers wiped sweat and grime from his brow, but his mind remained in turmoil. Despite the memories of his predecessor's life flooding his consciousness, the boy—Ash—felt utterly alien in his new skin.
His thoughts spiraled uncontrollably. "I killed someone," he thought, his hands shaking as they clenched into fists. "What have I done? Where am I?" The memories of the previous body lingered just out of reach, a foggy echo of a life filled with swords, betrayal, and blood. But now, facing the aftermath of his actions, none of it made sense.
"Lord Ash, are you okay?" A deep voice interrupted his inner chaos.
The boy looked up, startled, to see one of the knights standing nearby, his armor splattered with blood and his face lined with concern. Ash swallowed hard, trying to ground himself. "Yeah," he croaked, his voice barely above a whisper. He forced his trembling legs to carry him to the base of a nearby tree, where he sank to the ground, clutching his head.
Closing his eyes, Ash let the memories come. They surged forward like a raging tide, dragging him through the life of the body's previous owner. Flashes of a grand castle, endless training, moments of camaraderie, and bitter betrayal played before his mind's eye. His body reacted involuntarily—calm at times, trembling with rage or fear at others. The process was overwhelming, leaving him drained and disoriented.
A sharp, mocking laugh pulled him back to reality.
"Hahaha! I won't tell you anything!" The voice belonged to one of the captured rebels, his tone defiant despite his dire circumstances. Ash's eyes snapped open, his brows twitching in irritation. He pushed himself to his feet, still clutching his head as if to hold back the throbbing pain that threatened to split his skull.
His steps were unsteady but deliberate as he approached the captives. The knight who had spoken earlier hesitated, then followed a few steps behind. The rebel who had laughed—a burly man with bloodied armor—glared at Ash with a twisted grin. But it wasn't him that Ash focused on. Instead, his gaze shifted to the silent one—their leader.
Ash crouched before the defiant knight, his voice calm but laced with menace. "So," he said, a faint smile playing on his lips, "will you tell us anything?"
The rebel leader met his gaze unflinchingly. "I will not betray my master," he spat.
"Oh," Ash said, his smile widening. "I see."
Without warning, Ash turned to the mocking knight, grabbing a fistful of his hair and yanking his head back. The knight yelped, a mix of pain and surprise flashing across his face. Ash's smile didn't falter as light began to gather in his outstretched hand. The air grew heavy, charged with energy, as the light coalesced into a weapon—a scythe as black as midnight, its blade gleaming ominously and adorned with a crimson gem that pulsed like a beating heart.
The mocking knight's eyes widened in horror. "W-wait—"
Ash's movements were swift and merciless. The scythe's blade sliced cleanly through the man's throat, the sickening sound of flesh and bone giving way filling the air. Blood sprayed, painting the ground in a crimson arc. The other captives recoiled in shock, their defiance momentarily replaced with fear.
The rebel leader's voice rose in fury. "What are you doing?! You've sworn to take us to your lord for questioning! You can't just kill us!"
Ash tilted his head, his expression one of feigned innocence. "Oh, is that what you were hoping for?" His voice was light, almost playful, but his eyes burned with a cold intensity. "Did you surrender thinking we'd play by the rules?"
He stood, the scythe still glowing faintly in his hand, and took a step toward the leader. The rebel's defiance returned, his glare sharp enough to cut, but Ash was unfazed.
"Your hopes," Ash said softly, his grip tightening on the weapon, "will be shattered."
In one fluid motion, the scythe's blade swept across the rebel leader's throat. The knight's eyes widened in disbelief as he collapsed to the ground, his lifeblood pooling around him. Silence fell, heavy and oppressive, broken only by the ragged breaths of those who remained.
One of Ash's knights, his face pale and voice shaking, stepped forward. "My lord," he stammered, "we don't know who sent them. You shouldn't have—"
Ash's gaze snapped to him, cold and unyielding. "Are you questioning me?"
The knight flinched, his words dying in his throat. Ash turned away without another word, dismissing the man's concerns with chilling indifference. He strode toward the carriage that awaited him, his steps steady now, his earlier unease buried beneath a façade of calm authority.
As he reached the carriage, he paused, glancing back at the battlefield. "Collect our fallen knights' bodies," he ordered, his voice firm and commanding. "And clean up this mess. We're moving."
Without waiting for a response, he climbed into the carriage, closing the door behind him. The knights and maids exchanged uneasy glances, their loyalty battling with their unease at the boy who had once been their lord. Now, he was something else entirely—a force to be reckoned with, shaped by pain, betrayal, and an unrelenting will to survive...