With a burst of energy, he sprinted forward, charging straight into the inferno without any second thoughts.
The flames engulfed him instantly, licking at the thick coating of mud he had applied. The heat was terrifying—scorching, suffocating, and relentless him. But his makeshift protection was holding up better than he had hoped.
The mud insulated his skin, sparing it from blistering under the extreme heat. He felt hot, unbearably so, but the critical barrier kept him from being cooked alive. Still, the inside of the fire was no place for hesitation. He forced himself to keep running, his legs pumping furiously, his eyes fixed on the faint light of the other side.
The real challenge wasn't just the heat—it was the air. He clenched his teeth and held his breath as tightly as he could. Breathing in the searing, smoke-filled air would be a death sentence. His lungs burned from the effort, but he couldn't stop now.
"Just a few more meters!" he thought desperately, his chest beginning to ache from lack of oxygen.
Finally, he burst through the wall of flames, stumbling into the open. The fire was behind him, but the danger wasn't over. The freshly burned ground ahead radiated heat like an oven, and the air still sizzled with enough intensity to singe his lungs if he inhaled too soon.
He forced himself onward, sprinting a few more meters to clear the hot zone. Then, as he reached a patch of cooler ground, he finally allowed himself to gasp for air.
"Finally! I'm done!" he wheezed, collapsing to his knees. He finally allowed his lungs to breathe the cold air of the night.
For a moment, he simply sat there, staring at the wall of flames he had just crossed. "I actually did it," he said to himself, grinning despite his exhaustion. The sheer absurdity of his reckless plan sinking in, he couldn't help but laugh.
"Discovery Channel didn't lie! All those hours watching survival tips on TV... Who knew they'd save my life one day?"
He felt an unexpected gratitude toward his childhood self for those late nights spent glued to Discovery and National Geographic. Without that knowledge, he would've been forced to take a detour that could have cost him days.
As he stood to brush off the drying mud, he was disturbed by an armoured soldier.
"Who are you? State your name!"
The sharp voice cut through his ears like a blade. He turned to see a soldier pointing a sword directly at him as its blade reflected the moon.
Isaac blinked, caught off guard and said with a serious tone, "A survivor."
The soldier didn't lower his weapon, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. "A survivor? Through that fire? Explain yourself!"
"I am Arthur, leader of the 3rd Squad of Ironclad under Baron Lucius Ironclad," Isaac said, his voice steady but tinged with feigned sorrow. "The Baron fell in battle, along with all my comrades."
He deliberately softened his gaze, numbing his eyes to appear as though grief had overtaken him. Relaxing his facial muscles, he allowed his expression to droop, mimicking the anguish of a mourning soldier. His act was convincing; the flicker of unshed tears truly added a touch of authenticity.
Before the interrogating soldier could respond, another voice broke the tension.
"Hey! Who the hell are you talking to?" A second soldier emerged from the shadows, calling out to his comrade. "Squad Leader's been looking for you, and—wait. What in the gods' name is that?"
The second soldier stopped mid-sentence, his eyes widening in shock. The sight of Isaac, still covered head to toe in dried mud, made him recoil. He looked less like a man and more like a scary mud golem, the paint of drying mud barely made look like a human but a creature instead.
"A survivor," the first soldier said flatly, still watching Isaac with suspicion. "At least, that's what he claims. Go fetch a rope. We're tying him up and taking him to the Squad Leader."
The second soldier scoffed, folding his arms as he eyed Isaac warily. "A survivor? From the frontlines? Don't make me laugh. Barely fifty men made it out of the rear alive, and most of them lost limbs—or their sanity."
He leaned closer, his voice darkening. "Are you sure he's not one of those crazed villagers? The ones tainted by the demonic miasma? Half of those poor bastards have gone mad already, chasing shadows and babbling nonsense."
"I'm not interested in your theories," the first soldier snapped, his tone sharp and authoritative. "Just get the damn rope. We'll find out soon enough if he's who—or what—he claims to be."
"Sure man... You didn't have to lash out on me like that,"
With a grumble, the second soldier turned and disappeared into the night. He returned quickly, rope in hand, and whispered something to the first soldier before dashing off again to inform their Squad Leader of the suspicious encounter.
The first soldier stepped forward, holding the rope firmly. "Give me your hands," he ordered Isaac. "If you truly are human, you'll understand why I'm doing this."
Isaac hesitated but complied, extending his hands. The soldier bound them tightly, securing the knots. His sword was also confiscated, leaving Isaac defenseless.
The reason for their caution was obvious. The battlefield had been searched for evey inch thoroughly multiple times, and no survivors had been found. For one to suddenly appear, and that too from the frontlines no less, was beyond belief.
They suspected him rightfully so—that Isaac might be a demon in disguise, a shapeshifter sent to infiltrate their ranks and report back to the enemy. As it wasn't a uncommon occurrence as multiple demons that infiltrated human world multiple times and wrecked havoc.
As the soldier finished tying the rope, another figure approached—a grizzled man with a commanding presence. His armor bore more marks of battle than the others, and his eyes were hard and calculating.
"This the beggar you're calling a survivor?" the man asked, his tone laced with skepticism.
Isaac stood silently, his bound hands resting at his sides. He met the man's gaze with steady determination.
"Yes, Squad Leader," the first soldier replied, stepping back. "He claims to be Arthur of the 3rd Squad under Baron Lucius Ironclad."
The Squad Leader studied Isaac for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he spoke.
"Arthur, huh? If that's true, you've got a lot to explain."
(End of Chapter)
*****
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