Arthur didn't know how long he had slept. All he knew was that sleep was far kinder than waking. In his dreams, he was in the living room again, his family moving about as if the war, the blood, and the guilt had never touched him. His mother hummed softly as she cooked, his father sat reading the paper, and Mary was there too, her laugh a melody that warmed the room. She wasn't broken here, not like she had been in life. In this dream, she and his mother spoke like old friends, their joy untainted by pain.
Arthur soaked it all in, every moment healing him in a way nothing in the waking world ever could. It felt like the blood on his hands faded with each passing second.
But not all wounds were so easily soothed. He half-expected to see Sera here too, but she never came.
"Why would she?" he muttered to himself in the dream. "I didn't even know her."
Yet her absence haunted him. Her death weighed heavily on his soul. It wasn't just her death, it was her betrayal. She had promised him a fight, a fair contest of survival, yet it had all been a lie. Sera had known she wouldn't leave that battlefield alive. She had used him, lied to him so she wouldn't die alone. Or maybe it was her only act of defiance to a power that forced her to fight. And he had given it to her.
That's what stayed with him. That's what burned.
Shaking his head, Arthur pulled himself from the dream, forcing his eyes open.
He woke on the bottom bunk, his armor crumbling off his body in jagged, broken pieces. Every muscle ached. Every bruise throbbed. And perhaps most of all. He was exhausted, the tiring effects of the healing potion still lingering.
"Man, I'm running through these armors like paper," he muttered. "Wonder if Felt's got a third set lying around."
The room was alive with murmured conversations, but it quieted the moment Arthur stood. He could feel their eyes on him. His squadmates. They all stared at him silently, their eyes inscrutable.
Arthur ignored them and approached Felt, a cadet with dark hair and sharp, grey eyes.
"I need new armor," he said bluntly, too tired for pleasantries.
Felt studied him for a moment before nodding. "I'll see what I can do. In the meantime, Officer Mara's been asking for you. She's in her office."
"Got it. After a shower," Arthur replied. The grime, blood, and sweat from days of battle clung to him, and the thought of cleaning it off felt like the closest thing to peace he could ask for.
The hot water was a blessing, washing away the filth and some of the tension in his body. Yet as the blood swirled down the drain, Arthur's mind wandered. He remembered every face he'd killed, every desperate cry. Sera's lifeless body flashed in his mind, and his stomach churned. He clenched his fists against the wall, letting the scalding water cascade over him.
When he emerged, cleaner but no less burdened, he headed for Mara's office. Her tired voice rang out from inside.
"Enter."
Arthur stepped in. She sat behind her desk, her red hair disheveled, dark circles under her eyes, and fresh bruises decorating her face. She looked as exhausted as he felt.
"Cadet, you're awake," she said, leaning back in her chair. "Good. Why don't you tell me what happened yesterday?"
Arthur hesitated, confused by the question. "I went to battle. Got caught in enemy lines and couldn't make it back, so I hid in a crater and returned at dawn."
Mara tilted her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "That's not quite the story I heard."
Arthur frowned. "Ma'am?"
She laughed. A clear, almost melodic sound that felt out of place in this room. "Don't play dumb, Arthur. I'm talking about how you flew into the air like a lunatic and took out the archer who killed the commander. You did take her down, right?"
Arthur's chest tightened. "Yes, ma'am. She's dead."
Her dark eyes bore into him. "You spoke to her, didn't you?"
Arthur's head snapped up, shocked. "What makes you say that?"
Mara leaned forward. "Because I've been watching you. When you first got here, you didn't show an ounce of remorse for killing anyone. But now you do. Something changed. And, you didn't deny it when I brought it up."
Arthur stared at her, caught off guard. After a moment, he sighed. "She didn't die right away. We… talked. But she's dead, ma'am. That's all that matters."
Mara leaned back, her gaze softening just slightly. "War is horrible, isn't it?"
Arthur's voice was barely a whisper. "Yes."
She studied him for a moment longer before dismissing him. "Get some rest, Cadet. But don't forget—tomorrow, you'll fight again. Guilt doesn't excuse you from survival. Remember, your life depends on this."
Arthur nodded and left, the collar around his neck feeling heavier than ever. He wasn't a soldier. He was a criminal, a tool to be used and discarded. In a lot of ways, he was no different the Sera. Only he was alive.
Leaving her office, Arthur made his way back to his bed. Everyone was sleeping, after all, rest was worth more than gold during war.
The hours slipped by in silence until Felt returned with a new set of armor. Arthur didn't bother with the sword Felt offered, taking up the spear he had used the day before. The weapon felt right in his hands, almost natural.
When the call came, Arthur was back on the frontlines. The roar of a thousand footsteps thundered in his ears, the rhythm of war driving him forward. Noah was by his side, and though they didn't speak, there was an unspoken understanding between them now. They fought together as equals, Arthur's spear weaving through the chaos alongside Noah's blade.
Each kill felt like a dagger in his soul. Every time he struck, the faces of the fallen stayed with him. He couldn't shut it out anymore. They weren't faceless enemies. They were people—people with families, lives, dreams.
'I'm sorry,' he thought as he thrust his spear into a soldier's chest.
Another came at him, and he spun the spear, slicing cleanly through their neck.
'I'm sorry.'
And again. 'I'm sorry.'
The words became a mantra, echoing in his mind with each kill.
'I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.'
A hand clamped down on Arthur's shoulder. He spun instinctively, muscles coiled, thrusting his spear forward with all the precision of a cornered predator.
The spear stopped short, deflected with almost casual ease.
"Arthur!" Noah's voice was sharp, jolting him out of his trance.
Arthur blinked, lowering the spear, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Sorry," he muttered, his voice barely audible.
Noah's brows furrowed, concern flashing across his face, but he didn't press further. "We need to get back. Rest. Now."
Arthur nodded numbly, the adrenaline ebbing away, leaving behind a gnawing exhaustion. Together, they navigated the chaotic battlefield, weaving through debris, bodies, and the occasional desperate clash.
Arthur followed in silence, his mind still stuck somewhere between the living and the dead.
As they moved behind the frontlines toward the relative safety of the base, Noah broke the silence.
"Hey, Arthur… I was calling you. Like fifty times. You didn't answer."
Arthur shrugged, his voice flat. "Sorry. Got caught up in the fighting. Didn't hear you."
Noah didn't look convinced, but he nodded anyway. They walked past a fresh wave of soldiers heading toward the front. Their armor gleamed, unmarred by the sweat, grime, and blood that painted those who returned. Arthur watched them, their faces too clean, too young.
The silence stretched until Noah spoke again. "Hey, Arthur."
"Yeah?"
"I… I won't be able to go back with you."
Arthur turned to him, confused. "What? Why?"
Noah's expression tightened, a bitter smile playing at his lips. "Mana burst. The healing earlier, it's not sitting right. I need more time to recover."
Arthur nodded, his tone nonchalant, though a flicker of disappointment registered in his eyes. "That's fine. Rest up."
He patted Noah on the shoulder, trying to reassure him, before getting up. The base offered a momentary reprieve, a brief escape from death's shadow, but Arthur couldn't linger. Something tugged at him, an inexplicable pull.
He didn't know why, but he felt like he needed to be back out there.
Taking up his spear, Arthur pushed through the exhaustion and charged toward the frontlines once more. The chaos embraced him like an old friend, and the spear spun in his hands with practiced ease. He moved like a whirlwind of destruction, cutting through enemy ranks with a precision that seemed almost divine.
And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw it.
It wasn't clear how he noticed; amidst the chaos, it should have been impossible. Yet, his gaze locked onto the sight of an ally soldier, crumpling to the ground with a pained cry. The soldier had been impaled, his weapon slipping from trembling hands as he fell.
Arthur was moving before he even realized it, instincts overriding thought. He didn't check for enemies nearby, didn't look to see if anyone else was coming to help. All that mattered was reaching the fallen soldier.
He slid to the ground beside the wounded man, crouching low. The soldier writhed, his face pale, blood pouring from a wound in his abdomen. Arthur's breath steadied, his panic melting into a practiced calm as his training as Reshi took over.
The injury was bad, Arthur could tell at a glance, but it wasn't the wound itself that would kill him. It was the blood loss.
Arthur shed his chest armor plate without hesitation, pressing it hard against the gushing wound. The soldier thrashed, a weak cry escaping his lips. "Stay still," Arthur barked, his tone commanding yet steady.
The soldier's thrashing slowed, his wide, panicked eyes meeting Arthur's. "You'll be fine. Just hold on," Arthur muttered, though he wasn't sure whether the words were for the soldier or himself.
His hands worked swiftly, drawing on muscle memory. With one hand, he kept pressure on the wound; with the other, he searched for anything—cloth, bandages, even scraps of armor—to fashion a makeshift dressing.
The battlefield blurred around them. Shouts and clashes faded into a distant hum. For Arthur, there was only the soldier in front of him, the fragile thread of life slipping away too quickly.
"I've got you," he whispered, his voice steady despite the chaos. "You're not dying today."
When he saw the wounded soldier, something shifted. Without thinking, he sprinted to the man's side. His instincts as Reshi took over, his hands steady even as chaos raged around him. The wound was bad, but the blood loss would kill him first. Arthur tore off his armor and pressed it against the wound.
"Hold this," he barked. The soldier obeyed, his wide eyes filled with hope.
Arthur improvised, using his backplate as a makeshift sled to drag the man back to the medical tent. The journey was grueling, enemy and ally alike clashing all around him, but he didn't stop. When he reached the tent, Marsh stared at him, dumbfounded.
"Help him," Arthur said, his voice resolute. Together, they got the man to a healer.
"Arthur, what the hell are you doing?" Marsh asked.
Arthur smiled, exhausted but determined. "Saving people."
He didn't wait for a reply, turning back to the battlefield. This was his purpose now. Not to kill, but to save.
Hours passed in a blur. Arthur's body screamed in protest, his muscles on fire, but he didn't stop. Each time he dragged another soldier back to the tent, he felt a flicker of something, hope, maybe.
Arthur scanned the darkness, his body low as he weaved through the chaos of clashing soldiers. Blood and steel filled the air, the cacophony almost deafening. His eyes darted across the churned-up ground, scanning through the dead and dying. Then, he spotted it, a hand, pale and unmoving, sticking out from beneath a heap of bodies.
"There!" he hissed to himself, his heart racing.
Sprinting toward the figure, Arthur ignored the shouts and screams around him, each step driving him closer. As he reached the soldier, his breath caught. It was Officer Mara.
Her dark eyes, hazy with pain, locked onto his. Her red hair fanned out across the muddied ground like a macabre splash of poppies, streaked with dirt and blood.
"Cadet," she grunted weakly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Arthur gave a breathless laugh, a mix of relief and grim disbelief. "So, it's you."
Without wasting another second, he tore off his chest plate and backplate. Using his spear, he slashed through the upper portion of his bodysuit, stripping it into makeshift bandages. Mara's injuries were severe, deep cuts along her arm and thigh. He could tell the blood loss was already taking its toll.
"You're losing too much blood," he muttered, more to himself than her.
His training as Reshi returned in full flow and his hand moved with a smooth practised motion. Arthur wrapped one strip of fabric tightly around her arm, fashioning a crude tourniquet. Her face twisted in pain, but she didn't protest. Moving to her leg, he repeated the process, tying another strip just above the wound.
"What… what are you doing?" Mara croaked, her voice laced with both confusion and pain.
"Saving your life," Arthur grunted, his tone clipped.
She flinched, her gaze flicking to his hands as they worked methodically. For a brief moment, something unspoken passed between them, a shared understanding of just how close she was to death. Mara seemed to realize that his intentions were pure, and her protests ceased.
With the tourniquets in place, Arthur leaned back, breathing heavily. Then, without warning, he scooped her up. He set her onto his backplate and secured his chest plate over her as an improvised shield.
"Hold on," he exhaled, his voice strained as he lifted her weight.
Pushing his body to its limits, Arthur began the grueling journey back toward the base. Each step felt heavier than the last as he maneuvered through the chaos, dodging blades and stumbling over corpses. The battlefield seemed endless, a hellish expanse of blood and fire.
Then it happened.
Arthur didn't see the attack coming. One moment he was moving forward, the next he was airborne, the force of the blast sending him sprawling like a ragdoll. He hit the ground hard, his unarmored body skidding across the dirt. Pain exploded through him as cuts and bruises formed instantly.
Groggily, he forced himself to his knees, his vision swimming. Turning toward the source of the attack, his stomach dropped.
A MageKnight.
It was him—the same one who had sent a comet of destruction at Arthur on the first day. His hulking form radiated power, fire and earth swirling around him like a living volcano. Each step he took left destruction in his wake, soldiers falling before him as if they were nothing.
"Shit," Arthur whispered, his throat dry.
The MageKnight's grin was wide, predatory, as he tore his way through. He relished the carnage, savoring each death like a god toying with mortals. Arthur scrambled to his feet, his mind racing.
He sprinted back to Mara, who was still limp where she lay. "Don't make a sound," he hissed.
Mara nodded weakly, her fear evident. Her mana reserves were drained and she was heavily injured. In short, she was defenseless. Arthur worked quickly, burying her under a pile of corpses to hide her from view. It was a grisly solution, but it was all he could think of.
The MageKnight was getting closer. Arthur turned, planning to do the same for himself, but it was too late.
A fiery explosion erupted nearby, and Arthur was sent flying again, slamming into the ground with a sickening thud. Every nerve in his body screamed in pain, his breaths coming in shallow gasps.
The MageKnight loomed over the battlefield, his grin widening as he spotted Arthur. The boy was bare-chested, scrambling away like a desperate animal.
"Oh no, you don't," the MageKnight sneered.
He conjured a small meteor, hurling it toward Arthur. The ground erupted in a fiery blast, knocking him to his knees. Arthur clambered to his feet, turning to face his enemy.
"So, you survived, little rat," the MageKnight said, his voice dripping with sadistic glee.
Sarkar the MageKnight grinned maliciously as he saw the white haired boy pick up the spear. Relishing the scent of fear in the air. The white -haired boy stared at him, his scarlet eyes reflecting Sarkar's flames.
'Oh, I can't wait to kill', he bubbled inwardly. 'To see the look of terror, to break his will. To watch his expression transform as he saw death slowly press down on him like being crushed under a giant's foot.'
The boy charged, spear spinning determinedly in his hands. Sarkar bit back his chuckle. The boy was talented, sure. But he lacked training, and experience. Thrusting out his hand, he shaped his mana into a flaming sword.
Then he struck. The sword ate through the spear hungrily. The boy yelped in pain as his fingers burnt from the intense heat.
"Good, good. Scream some more!" Sarkar cackled loudly. "Entertain me little rat!!!" In a sadistic stupor he thrust the sword forward, impaling through Arthur's stomach.
Sarkar delighted as Arthur's eyes widened in pain. But, to his disappointment, no sound came out. Ripping out the sword, he saw the white-haired boy fall backwards onto the floor. No longer breathing.
"Tsk."
'He had died too quickly. Oh well. There were others to play with.' Turning, Sarkar left, hoping to find reverie elsewhere.
Arthur's red eyes met his, filled with defiance. Slowly, he crouched and picked up a discarded spear.
Arthur lay there, his vision dimming as blood pooled beneath him.
'So this is how it ends. I never expected to die, so soon after dying.'
Darkness crept in, swallowing the edges of his vision.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Then, as if from nowhere, a blue screen materialized before him:
CONGRATULATIONS: ARTHUR GRAVEWALKER
YOUR TRIAL IS UPON YOU.
ERROR: BODY IS IN A STATE OF DEATH.
ACTIVATING TEMPORARY STASIS.
STASIS SUCCESSFUL.
YOU ARE NOW BEING TRANSPORTED TO YOUR TRIAL…